


Quadrumvirate

by firstordershitposting (ald0us)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Aftercare, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Boot Worship, Bottom Kylo Ren, Choking, Clonecest, Collars, Double Anal Penetration, Double Domming, Glove Kink, Group Sex, Hair-pulling, Hux is a jackass, Huxcest, Ice Cream, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Leash Play, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Pool Sex, Praise Kink, The Huxes are everywhere in between, There's an actual plot in here I swear, Top Kylo Ren, alternate title: Kylo Ren Does Quadruplets, i will face george lucas and walk backwards into hell, murder subplot, not so vague incestuous undertones, telepathic orgasm broadcast, vague incestuous undertones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-07-15 02:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7202600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ald0us/pseuds/firstordershitposting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>noun: quadrumvirate;<br/>A group of four men joined in authority.</p><p>     or: General Hux is one of four clones of his father. Together, they form a perfect whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by first-disorder's work [here](http://first-disorder.tumblr.com/post/145058669679/whats-better-than-hux-three-huxes-lets), which grew with our combined efforts into tons of smut and a smidgen of plot.

Kylo felt it before one of the stormtroopers yelled out “ _Man down! Repeat, man down!”_ a tearing shout in the Force that ripped through him like a shock blast, sending shockwaves of sympathetic pain and adrenaline shooting down his spine. He stumbled back, the waves of Resistance fire reeling in front of his eyes like a thousand angry hornets. He slashed at the sheets of blaster fire, uncoordinated, anger and rage welling in him until he felt the Force tearing through him, pounding in his blood like a powerful drug.

He lashed out, tearing at everything within reach. A roar tore from his throat; the wind tore at his hair, trees ripping themselves from their roots, artillery flying across the sloping battlefield, men and rocks and debris alike whipped up in a roaring whirlwind. Dirt and glass and shrapnel peppered the air so thickly Kylo could hardly see, screams and crashing and destruction roaring loudly in his ears. Exhaustion tinged the edges of his consciousness, drawing quickly inwards, collapsing on himself. He felt only his Knights and his rage, bright spots of power in the Force.

As abruptly as the wild surge of strength had came, it left. Kylo felt spent, emptied out; he felt his knees hit the soft earth, a rock digging painfully into his kneecap. Something hot gushed down his face under his mask. When he licked his lips he tasted the coppery tang of blood.

Strong hands gripped his upper arms, pulling him upwards. Kylo shook them off with a growl, the world reeling before him. He pressed his palms to the earth to steady himself, his sense of space tilting on its axis. The smell of smoke and charred flesh filled his nostrils as the flames of his own destruction raged around him, consuming the Resistance, the forest, and his own troops alike.

_FALL BACK,_ Kylo shouted, but the words didn’t come out of his mouth. Fear spiked in the troopers around him; a couple grabbed their helmets, as if afraid they were hearing voices. Then with a great surge the fire advanced and the troopers turned and _ran,_ scattering like panicked animals, Resistance and First Order alike fleeing the chemical flames.

Kylo pushed himself to his feet, his ears ringing loudly, drowning out all other noise. Dimly he could feel a strange tearing in his side; he ignored it, charging across the field to the small knot of huddled Knights.

He pressed a hand to the wounded Knight’s forehead. Pain and outrage flowed through the makeshift bond, pungent and all too real. Fear coiled tight in Kylo’s stomach. He poured his remaining strength into the bond, feeling himself go dizzy, then pushed the other Knights aside as he tore through the swaths of black material. The wounded Knight’s blood soaked his gloves, making them slick and slippery. His hands shook, his vision tunneling, going fuzzy with unshed tears.  
  
He would not lose his Knight. He would not lose anyone ever again. Even if he had to tear through worlds with his bare hands, or carve his way through stone, or carry the Knight on his back all the way back to the _Finalizer._

_Stay with me,_ he pleaded, entirely unashamed to beg.

The Knight’s gloved hand brushed against his mask, weak but fond. _I will try._

“Trying’s not good enough,” he growled, chewing at his lip. He reached out, biting into the mind of the nearest soldier, pressing in hard. Terror shot through the woman, harsh and primal; Kylo ignored it.

_Hail the Finalizer. Demand a emergency med evac. Do it now._

He withdrew. The woman’s mind recoiled in terror, but she did as he asked, almost on rote. Kylo grabbed the Knight’s shoulder, feeling the Knight’s pain as his own. He felt as if he were being ripped in two—he gasped, trembling, choking on the pain, the fear, the terrible _fear_ of losing them—

The other Knights took hold of his arms and shoulders, strength and concern pouring through the group bond, bolstering him and their injured companion. _It will be okay,_ they murmured, over and over, a soothing rhthym, a calming current. _It will be okay._

 

 

 

The airlift back up to the _Finalizer_ was tense, electrified by Kylo shouting the Knights’ relayed orders to the medics as they sensed every small change in the wounded Knight’s condition, the harried and hopelessly bumbling med droids doing more harm than help. Kylo’s tense terror overflowed and burst the main fuse in one. He’d get screamed at by Hux for it later—

_Hux._

He was the one who’d planned this mission, spread his Knights too far apart down the First Order’s frontlines. Too far apart for them to be effective, their intimate combat bond weakened by physical distance. He’d shouted and railed when Kylo had abandoned his orders, woefully oblivious as to how to best utilize the Knights as a fighting force, and refusing to listen when Kylo attempted to explain.

If only he would _listen,_ he’d ranted to the Supreme Leader on multiple occasions. If he _listened_ we’d be strong. He doesn’t understand us. He never will. He can’t.

_Hmm,_ Snoke would reply, in that serene tone of voice that suggested, maddeningly, that Kylo was wrong, but would not reveal why.

He was going to give Hux a piece of his kriffing mind, Kylo decided as the havoc of hangar bay unfolded around them and the droids and medics rushed the Knight off to the medbay.

_Go,_ the Knights told him, following their fallen comrade like a flock of crows. _We will keep you linked. Go._

Kylo didn’t hesitate, locating the cold, hard pocket of consciousness that was the General on the _Finalizer_ and striding off. The crowd of soldiers and technicians parted for him like butter, sliding out of the way to let him pass, looking carefully away. Already he could hear the low buzz around him— _he ripped up the battlefield—some kind of rage—not human—terrifying—_

Kylo breathed in their fear, their respect. It felt cold and clear, like a glass of cold water, freezing away his fatigue and feeding a colder, icy sort of fury. By the time he reached Hux’s door, he felt the Force bending and twirling around him slightly, as if he were some sort of axis of fury, a spring too tightly wound.

The General was in his quarters. Kylo pushed the doors aside, waving them open as if they weren’t locked at all, then strode through.

He faltered, then stopped. Stared. Confusion rolled off him in waves; what he saw boggled his mind, defied and demanded explanation. His fury was halted in its tracks, nearly forgotten.

“Well?” Hux demanded. “Do you have something to say, Ren, or are you just going to stare at us until your eyeballs rot?”

Kylo opened his mouth, closed it. “There’s—there’s three of you,” he stammered.

“Four,” Hux corrected idly. Kylo strained his senses—his eyesight was kaleidoscopically shifting in and out of focus—and there were indeed four separate consciousnesses in the room, each of them so near and close so as to be utterly indistinguishable.

Kylo’s face burned. The Hux who’d spoken—he assumed that was _his_ Hux, assuming there was a singular one he knew at all—was sitting with characteristic regalness in a large, black armchair, his omnipresent vague, aloof sneer plastered unpleasantly on his face.

Beside him another identical man clung shyly to his greatcoat, snuggling tightly against him, burying his rather pink face in Hux’s shoulder, arm clasped around Hux’s shoulders. His hair seemed more pale than Hux’s and hung long around his neck. He wore soft, loose fitting First Order-issue civilian clothes and no shoes. There was something pretty about him that wasn’t in Hux, his shy mannerisms, averted eyes.

The third, at his other side, his jade-colored eyes sharp with razor keenness, was focused entirely on Hux’s hair, stroking it gently, his breath faintly rustling Hux’s perfectly regulation-length sideburns. He wore a technician’s simple fatigues and boots, his hair even longer than the first’s, pulled back into a soft ponytail.

Sitting at his feet was a fourth, his attention entirely affixed to the wicked-looking sniper rifle on the deck before him, his strong, sure gloved hands breaking it down with undeniable expertise. His hair was stormtrooper-short and a long, ropey scar wound over his torso. He wore black soldier’s fatigues and a black tank and heavy combat boots. His eyes were pale and eagle-sharp: when he finally glanced up at Kylo his eyes ran over him rapidly, taking in everything.

“What... _how_?” Kylo managed to stutter out.

“My father did have uses for clones, Ren,” Hux informed him in a bored tone, barely looking up from the datapad in his hand. “But not on a mass scale. Too messy. Expensive. On smaller scale, however...well, we’re his legacy.”

The pretty one murmured something in Hux’s ear, nuzzling gently against his cheek. Kylo bit his lip, fighting to keep heat from his skin. Hux gave him a soft caress to the pretty one’s jaw with a still-gloved hand. “Genetically, and ideologically.”

Kylo shook his head, as if hoping to wake up from a very, very strange dream. His purpose coming here had been entirely hijacked; he felt like he’d fallen down a reactor shaft into a different dimension. “Your father...cloned himself....and made the four of you. They’re your...brothers?”

The way they’d entwined together was decidedly anything but brotherly. As if to prove his point, the one with the ponytail bit gently at Hux’s ear, teasing it with his teeth. If he’d noticed Kylo, he hadn’t shown it. If Hux was at all phased by his brothers’ affections, he didn’t give even the merest hint of it.

Hux rolled his eyes. “Not _brothers,_ Ren. We’re all one and the same. Parts of a whole.”

More together than they would be as individuals. Realization crashed over him like thunder. Hux’s tasks, as Snoke and Hux himself were so fond of reminding him, far outweighed his own. “All your work. You share it.”

Hux favored him with a smirk. “Very good, Ren,” he said, his voice the wrong side of patronizing. “We each have our specialties. One of us engineered Starkiller, devoted his entire life to it.” He gestured to the ponytailed one, who offered Kylo a brief, skeptical look.

“One of us masterminds the Order’s propaganda and writes the speeches,” he continued, and the pretty one gave Kylo a shy smile and pressed closer to Hux, one slim leg folded in his lap.

“One to protect.” The sniper at Hux’s feet gave Kylo a hard glare, then returned to his rifle, cold and unconcerned.

“And one to present to the world.” he finished with an incline of his head.

Kylo struggled to comprehend this. It all sounded so surreal, so bizarre. He expected someone to laugh at him for his gullibility at any second. (“Honestly, Ren, did you really think I was part of some clone hive mind? You really are as idiotic as you are useless.”) He felt dizzy, his brain misfiring, like he might topple at any moment.

“He’s hurt,” the pretty one, the poet, whispered, eyes wide.

“He’s bleeding,” agreed the engineer in hushed tones.

“Blaster wound,” Hux concluded, nodding to the sniper at his feet. The sniper stood with surprising grace and caught Kylo just as the floor swung up to collide with his head. Kylo blinked, his vision wavering. The sniper’s lithe frame was lined with durasteel muscle, hard and unforgiving. His gaze was utterly impassive as he stared down at him; Kylo felt he would have been somewhat safer with a starved dionaga.

Slowly, creeping towards him with trepidation, the other two clones came to kneel beside him. The sniper batted the engineer’s hand away as he reached out to touch him. Kylo could just barely make out Hux still perched in his high-backed armchair, smoking, watching.

“Just a surface burn. Little puncture. Antiseptic salve and a batcta patch will suffice.”

“You could really work on your bedside manner,” Kylo muttered, and instantly regretted it. That was something Han Solo might say.

The sniper ignored him, standing and retrieving a medkit from a concealed wall panel, then returning to Kylo’s side. He pulled a pair of sterilized cutters from a plastisteel wrapper and cut away his upper robes in long uneven strips. Kylo bared his teeth as the cutters touched a painful patch of his ribs. The sniper then probed the wound with salve with deft, strong strokes.

Kylo hissed and flinched away, but his arms were instantly pinned down, the engineer holding down his shoulders, the poet holding his wrists, each with deceptive strength. The sharp, searing pain stung; a groan that wasn’t entirely of pain escaped lips. His face burned and he was infinitely glad he was still wearing his mask.

The sniper wiped the salve away with gauze and applied a fresh coat, then took a bacta patch and ripped it open with his teeth, peeling back the interface and applying it with little delicacy to Kylo’s ribs. Kylo growled; the engineer gave a bemused smirk that was entirely and infuriatingly Hux and pressed him harder to the floor.

There was a hot, melting sensation around the wound that suggested the patch had taken. The sniper leaned back on his heels, expression unchanged. He snapped the kit shut, returned it to its place, then returned to his rifle.

“You can let go of me now,” Kylo snapped. To his ire, he regretted it when they complied. But neither moved from his side. Their eyes wide, marveling, childlike. Kylo wondered whether they had ever seen a living face that was not their own.

The engineer reached out to touch his mask. Kylo seized his wrist in his hand and shoved it away, then attempted to sit. A wave of dizziness claimed him and he felt himself flop back onto the deck.

“You need to rest,” Hux’s voice said, and Kylo couldn’t be sure which one of them it came from. From the snide tone, it was probably Hux himself.

“Tell them to stop pawing at me, and I will,” Kylo snapped, redirecting the poet’s attempts to touch his bare shoulder with the Force.

“Tell them yourself,” Hux replied tartly. “They speak Basic. Better than you, probably.”

Kylo slammed his fist on the deck with unnecessary force, causing the poet to startle. “Stop touching me,” he grit out. His ribs really did hurt—this was all Hux’s fault, this whole kriffing bizarre thing.

Both withdrew instantly. Whether from his request or his outburst, Kylo could not tell. Kylo grit his teeth and attempted to sit up again, failing once more. He gave a huff of indignation and relinquished himself to the deck. This was _all_ Hux’s fault, and the Supreme Leader would hear about it.

The poet glanced from him to Hux, biting at his bottom lip. Kylo noticed his slim hands were stained with old-fashioned ink. There was a spot of it on his chin, smudged, no doubt by his hand.

“He wants to see your face,” Hux said, sounding bored, evidently translating. Or interpolating.

Kylo hesistated. Then, with the engineer’s help, he sat up, triggering the release with the Force, then pulling off his mask. Wet with sweat and blood, his hair fell around his face, long and ratty. He was beginning to feel the underhanded pull of exhaustion again, unable to keep himself from leaning more heavily against the engineer behind him.

The poet reached out and swiped at his face with a thumb, then brought his hand, bright red with Kylo’s blood, to his mouth and licked, long and slow, his indistinctly colored eyes focused entirely on his finger.

_Fuck._ Kylo grit his teeth and scowled, refusing to be aroused. When the clone’s eyes lifted from his hand to meet Kylo’s gaze, something hard coiled in his gut, his breath suddenly short as if he’d been punched. He could feel his cock hardening under his robes. There was something so _Hux-like_ about him: the high cheekbones, the hard eyes, the surprisingly slight frame, but also something unlike him, a sensuality Hux ruthlessly repressed.

  
He cradled Kylo’s face lightly in both his hands, staining both palms with blood, then dipped in close and tore into Kylo’s lip with his teeth. Kylo made a surprised noise that was quickly stifled by the poet licking hungrily at the fresh stream of blood, his tongue drawing over his mouth and chin. Kylo leaned forwards to dig his hands into the poet’s waist but found his arms pinioned behind his back by the engineer, the other clone’s breath tickling the back of his neck, hot mouth pressing sloppy kisses to the back of his neck and shoulders.

Kylo whined, half in frustration and half in pleasure, then gave another, significantly lower whine as the poet sat astride him, his thighs tight around Kylo’s hips. Kylo yearned to grab him by the waist, tear off his clothes, push him to the deck, fuck him as he squirmed under Kylo’s weight. The engineer’s tongue on the back of his neck, moving in slow, wet circles, was sending hot, shooting shivers down his spine, the tight vise-like grip around his wrists pleasurably firm.

With a snarl Kylo reached out in the Force, feeling along the poet’s body until he found the spot, then _pushed._ The poet gasped, spine arching, grabbing at Kylo’s hair, the clone’s heady rush of _sensation_ spilling over into the Force and breaking over Kylo, shattering his focus. Kylo fought against the wave of pleasure with renewed focus, reveling in his own control, sending pulsating waves of pressure into him, over and over.

The poet moaned, a drawn-out, breathy sound that sent fresh sparks of arousal shooting through him. The two clones ground against him in near synchronization, the sheer sensation setting Kylo adrift in a torrent of sharp pain and powerful pleasure, the poet’s moans coming shorter and faster, his head tilted back, eyes closed, wet lips parted in a picture of ecstasy, hips snapping against Kylo’s faster and faster, pushing at Kylo’s hardened cock.

Kylo strained in the engineer’s arms, the desire to grab the poet and fuck him senseless too strong to resist. The engineer wrestled him back, one arm snaking around Kylo’s throat and pressing into it, cutting all but the harshest gasps of air. The poet’s fingernails at Kylo’s scalp, fingers tangling painfully in his hair and pulling. Kylo gasped in intense pain and bliss, his lungs burning and his body tingling, the wound on his side not yet chemically numbed, sending stabbing shocks of pain through his torso. His grip on the Force was burning thin—he pushed harder into the poet, who’s moans quickly creshendoed into harsh, urgent panting, his slim chest rising and falling rapidly, bucking at Kylo’s hips with reckless abandon. Kylo was dizzyingly close to coming, passing out from blood loss, or succumbing to oxygen starvation; he struggled weakly in the engineer’s cruel grip—he truly _was_ Hux in body and spirit—

The poet came with a forceful sigh, pure bliss radiating from him like a shock blast. Kylo relinquished his grip on the Force with a relieved sigh, relaxing in the engineer’s grip. The strangling pressure on his throat lifted and Kylo took a great gasp of breath, his cock now painfully hard, the world spinning lazily around him as he panted for oxygen—

The engineer fumbled with Kylo’s robes for a moment, then ripped away his belt and gripped his cock, giving it a few hard, lazy strokes. Kylo whined and wriggled against him, desperate for release, his knee coming up hard and accidentally driving into the poet’s nose, knocking him back sprawling on the desk, still a bit dazed. The engineer thrust hard against Kylo’s back, his erection hard against his spine, grinding against him; he could hear the clone’s breath quickening in his ear.

The poet crawled back towards Kylo on hands and knees, pushing away his brother’s hands, then dipped down and took Kylo’s cock in his mouth, pushing down with reckless enthusiasm, the Force humming with satisfaction and desire around him.

Kylo came suddenly and the poet gave a soft, strangled groan; Kylo dug his fingers into the engineer’s thigh as a deluge of blinding bliss ripped through him, blasting away his senses, his vision blacking out as he either passed out or overloaded with raw sensation.

When he at last drifted back to reality, still rocking on residual waves of ecstasy, he realized with no small degree of satisfaction that he’d blasted his orgasm into the minds of everyone present. He and the two clones lay in a tangle of sweaty limbs and giddy aftershock; across the room Hux flicked out the ashen remains of his cigarette, expression impassive.

_Fucking animals,_ the general thought loudly, and Kylo bared his teeth at him in his most feral grin.


	2. Chapter 2

Kylo drifted back into consciousness, feeling unaccountably warm. Whether he’d been out for a moment or hours he couldn’t tell. The air around him smelled salty with sweat, the Force a dull, diffused, pulsating glow. For a moment he thought he felt the presence of his Knights—their joined minds felt the same way, their hearts and minds beating as one—but the aura was different, weaker, entirely human.

Then he remembered. The injured Knight. Storming into Hux’s quarters. And—here he blushed—fucking Hux’s clones and passing out shortly thereafter. An almost impossible, let alone undignified, sequence of events. He was almost wondering whether he should turn himself into the medbay and it’s psytechs when he felt something warm shift against his skin.

Kylo opened his eyes.

Hux’s still, starlit face was mere centimeters from his own, the faint light catching his translucent lashes and lighting their whole length. Shallow shadow pooled in the hollow under his cheekbone, his curved lips chapped and pink. He was pale as porcelain, thin and angular in places, soft in others. His soft breath fluttered on Kylo’s cheek.

Kylo shifted and discovered arms entwined around his waist and chest, bodies pressed against his, keeping him warm. The engineer, poet, and sniper lay snug and asleep in Hux’s bed, piled together like Wookie cubs, himself in the middle.

The general sat at his desk, his exhausted face and posture lit by his databoard. He was shivering with cold, his greatcoat wrapped tightly around his shoulders, his normally immaculate uniform wrinkled and creased, his perfectly-lacquered hair falling around his forehead.

Some minutes later, Kylo drifted back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

The whole of the next day was spent in constant orbital bombardment, the _Finalizer_ surging and shuddering with energy as she mercilessly battered the target world’s surface. He’d seen what that kind of firepower did to a world; he wondered if Hux or any of his crewers actually knew. Or cared.

The engineer, for his part, found it beautiful, watched the tiny pinpricks of the planet’s exploding crust the way one might marvel at a flower’s bloom or the winking of Selucian fireflies. Kylo found fascinatingly repulsive.

When the general roused from his fitful sleep to prepare for the alpha shift, Kylo had been awake, meditating, for a few hours. The poet had to be dragged out of bed by the sniper, and clearly hated every second of it. His pale hair stuck up at every angle. The engineer pulled him aside and combed it down with his hands while the poet pulled faces and whined. Kylo attempted to ignore them, pushing their mental and spoken chatter out of mind. He still felt fuzzy, distant, disjointed from reality.

“You look ridiculous doing that,” Hux told him. Kylo startled to attention. The general turned his back to Kylo as the poet and engineer helped him into a fresh uniform. The whole apparatus was far more complicated than Kylo could have imagined—it truly did require two men to get him into it. “Everyone on this ship knows you’re about as calm as an Rancour in a thunderstorm.”

“I’m not meditating to be calm.” Kylo said. “I’m honing my emotions.”  
  
The general rolled his eyes, and the engineer couldn’t hold back a sympathetic grimace. “In practice, Ren, you seem to do more _honing_ of your blade against my consoles and crew.”

Kylo didn’t rise to the bait, his focus elsewhere. “If I were stable, I’d be powerless.”

“Isn’t that comforting,” Hux muttered. He was agitated, on edge. Kylo wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d issued more than one flaming rant to a subordinate over the state of their uniform.

His rancor thawed some when the poet and engineer hugged him tightly from both sides. They were a touchy bunch, Kylo reflected a bit bitterly as Hux petted each of their heads in turn and kissed them each goodbye. It was a bit creepy when it all came down to it.

Scratch that. It was incredibly creepy. The Knights of Ren were a celibate, intimately connected order—it was as if they’d suddenly become genetically identical and started fucking each other senseless.

Kylo’s thoughts rushed back to the last evening. He felt his face go hot.

On second thought, that didn’t sound so bad. If he could just convince the Knights to...alter their definition of celibacy—

“Make sure you’re out of this room by start of Alpha shift, Ren,” Hux ordered as he strode out the door, brushing away his clingy brothers. The door swept shut behind him as the engineer and sniper disappeared into the ‘fresher, fresh clothes in hand.

Kylo made a face, but obliged. He had the injured Knight to think of. Pushing away all other thoughts, he began searching the room for his boots. The poet brought them over with a shy smile, as if reading his mind. Kylo accepted them and sat on the edge of the mattress, pulling them on—

A head of near-blonde hair and then two pleading murky-green eyes appeared between Kylo’s legs.

“No,” Kylo said, with his best attempt at sternness. “I’ve got things to do. Hux will skin me alive if I’m not out of here in five minutes. You know that.”

The poet gave a sneer so Hux-like it took Kylo by surprise. Then, in a perfectly canny affectation of the general’s clipped tones, he said, “Then I suggest you get started _immediately,_ Ren.

Kylo resisted temptation for all of fifteen seconds. But the fantasy of putting his cock down the general’s throat—silencing him for a few blissful moments—was too strong. “Beg for it.”

“ _Please,_ Ren,” the poet said in the general’s voice. Kylo imagined Hux’s sneering face in place of the poet’s pretty one, on his knees pleading to be fucked, his perfect hair begging to be mussed. “Please, I’ll be so _good_ for you, I’ll do whatever you want, I want you, I want you to take whatever you like—“

Kylo made a low noise that was half-growl, half-groan, wasting little time fumbling with his garments. The poet teased at his tighs, pressing his hot, wet mouth to Kylo’s skin, then took his already hard cock into his mouth, playing the tip with his tongue. Kylo grabbed the back of the clone’s hair and gave a rough, impatient pull. The poet choked and spluttered but did not fight back, stroking the underside of Kylo’s cock with his tongue, gripping at Kylo’s thighs with his thin fingers.

Kylo gave another tug and the poet gave a choked whimper, his excitement at the harsh treatment thick in the Force. The clone’s throat worked up and down, weakly at first, then more powerfully; dimly Kylo could feel that the poet’s lungs had started to burn and his vision spot from lack of oxygen. His lashes fluttered in inexplicable arousal and he moaned long and loud around Kylo’s cock, utterly unabashed. The vibration tingled, then shot a hot spark up Kylo’s shaft; in an instant Kylo gripped the poet’s head and shouted through grit teeth, distantly feeling the clone swallowing around him.

The poet sank back on his heels, breathing heavily and leaning over on his palms, thin chest heaving. Kylo gave him an affectionate caress, then let him nuzzle his flushed cheek against his hand, wet lips playing over Kylo’s ungloved fingertips. They were both breathing hard; Kylo felt a sharp stabbing in his ribs and hoped that he hadn't torn open his wound.

A commlink Kylo hadn’t even realized was there twittered loudly. Reluctantly, Kylo answered it.

Without preamble, Hux’s irate voice hissed, _“Ren, I know you’re still there. If you’re not in medbay in four minutes, I’m setting Phasma on you._ ”

Kylo frowned. “Why four?”

“ _Medbay. Four minutes.”_ Hux snapped back without answering the question, then ended the transmission.

The poet grabbed a black standard-issue t-shirt from a panel behind him and handed it to Kylo wordlessly. It was far too small, sized to fit Hux’s slim frame rather than his own, but he squeezed and grunted his way into it nonetheless, agitating his wounded ribs.The poet licked his lips, eyes locked on Kylo’s arms.

Kylo chuckled quietly, putting on his mask, the seals hissing shut. “You’re never satisfied, are you?”

The poet dipped in closer as if to kiss or bite him, eyeing him through his translucent lashes. His arms were unnaturally pale beneath his black shirt, hands pressing on either side of Kylo’s legs on the mattress. “Come back and find out,” he whispered in Kylo’s ear, and a cool shiver raced down Kylo’s spine.

 

 

  
It took Kylo five minutes to get to the medbay, but it seemed relatively Phasma-free. Which was a relief, as he imagined she would take any excuse to give him a roaring tirade. Phasma had not taken kindly to his disruption of her well-ordered nest. The _Finalizer_ may have been Hux’s, but it was Phasma that stalked her halls at night, ensuring order, loving the faceless, soulless walls as dearly as she secretly cared for—and, publicly, disciplined—her equally faceless troops.

The injured Knight was still unconscious, strapped into bed and looking deathly pale as a corpse, but Kylo could feel their mind submerged in their body, sleeping soundly. He sat there for a few hours, watching the machines beep and whirr and pump gases and fluids into the Knight’s body, holding the weak presence close like turning a familiar, precious pebble over in his hands.

The others didn’t bother, had no faith in practical medicine, trusted only the Force. But Kylo was the outsider, raised on medicine and language and society, too used to it to ever truly stop taking comfort from it. Sometimes he could sense the Knight feeling the connection of their minds, taking relief from it.

Around 1100 he wandered aimlessly back to his quarters. Whenever his Master had no direct task for him, he felt purposeless, adrift, as if he were out of place. Unsure. Lonely.

There was no furniture in his room, save the dais with his grandfather’s mask, a meditation spot, and his cot. Kylo dropped onto it heavily, too tired and confused to even attempt meditation. He felt uneasy, on edge, irritated.

It had, undeniably, been a very long time since he’d had sex. Being on a vessel as large as the _Finalizer,_ where everyone was constantly fucking or thinking about fucking or fantasizing about fucking, was exhausting to tune out, and even more exhausting to convince himself that he _wanted_ to tune it out. But the Knights were a celibate order. He’d violated one of their principles, and he couldn’t imagine they weren’t aware.

His guilt bled into the Force, and the others felt it, immediately sending a flood of understanding and sympathy.

 _We have all lived many of your lifespans already,_ one told him, verbalizing out of deference to his reliance on language. _It takes practice. To err is to be young._

Another indicated that he might as well get it while he can, to the scolding of the others. A third, very wryly, suggested that as long as he shared—

“Stop it,” Kylo groaned aloud, feeling his face going very red. _Besides, it’s Hux. You know how much I hate him. How much we hate him. I can’t fuck him—_

A Knight very diplomatically pointed out that he already had, two times over.

_This general elicits strong emotion in you. A connection that strong should be investigated. And learning about an enemy is always an advantage._

Kylo had to concede that they had a point there. “You don’t think I should—“

_Whatever happens is the will of the Force._

Somehow, Kylo didn’t find that very comforting. But he wanted more—ravenously. And it scared him. His wants were never for people, always of things he could control. Here he was at the mercy of others. Vulnerable. The thought was exciting as it was terrifying.

He thought of Hux’s clones clinging tight to him, petting each other, murmuring their strange quiet talk, desire as thick in the Force as the sudden lump in his throat, binding around his chest, making his cock stir. Hastily he secluded himself mentally from the other Knights, fumbling with his robes. He felt like a rutting animal—or worse, a gangling, sulking teenager—as he jerked himself off with a practiced hand, the absurdly desirable fantasy pushing him on. He could imagine their hands on him, ghosting between his legs, stroking his back and chest—

“ _Many hands make light the work,_ ” Hux’s voice whispered softly in his ear and Kylo came in a dizzying rush. He panted heavily for a few seconds, lost in his release. Hot shame followed the moment after. Here he was, Master of the Knights of Ren, jerking off to a silly fantasy like a child—

Kylo got up and ripped off the mangled remains of his robes, palming open a panel and pulling out an older set. They were worn, charred, and smelled strongly of ozone, but he didn’t mind, throwing them down on his meditation pod. The small accomplishment made him feel somewhat better; he pulled off the outer sheet on his cot and tossed it onto the floor, ostensibly for a droid to find, then lay down under the thin blanket and tried to still his mind and still-thrumming body enough to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short and I hope Kylo's overeager blowjob (like seriously, somebody's gotta teach that kid some restraint + technique) is enough to tide you over to next week...I'm posting a real scene (haha jokes it's 2-3k of smut) on Monday so.....see you then?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when I said this would be 2-3k? I lied. It’s over 4. see y’all in hell

Kylo’s comlink twittered loudly, jolting him awake. Half-asleep and furious, he raised a hand and called the noisy thing towards him, flipping it open and accepting the frequency.

“What?” he ground out.

There were only two possibilities for who could be calling him: Phasma, and Hux. Phasma had neither the interest nor the stupidity. His Knights would wake him telepathically rather than waste time on crude technology. Which left the general and his idiotic mind games.

“ _Ren. You’re awake._ ”

Kylo ground his teeth, nearly crushing his comlink in his tightened grip. “I am _now,_ no thanks to you.”

_“Be here by 0100,_ ” the general said, sounding bored, then cut off the link.

Kylo gripped the cot’s frame to keep from lashing out at the nearest piece of furniture. The presumption alone burned—his delusion that he had Kylo at his beck and call—Kylo had half a mind to refuse, to leave Hux waiting for...something.

But. The general hadn’t said what he wanted. If it were somehow about a mission for the Order, Kylo knew Hux would not hesitate to report Kylo’s recalcitrance to his Master. He had a maddening habit of hiding the ball, laying thousands of tiny traps for Kylo to fall into, make him take the fall for the general’s errors, to undermine Kylo at every turn. Even the Knight’s injury was sure to find a way to be _his_ fault.

If it wasn’t, Kylo had steeled himself to stay out of their strange little incestuous fuckfest. And make that very clear, in his most cold and unaffected tones.

“ _I’m not interested._ ” he would say, and oh how Hux would fume. The thought alone was almost delicious enough to chase away the nagging fantasy of the general choking on Kylo’s cock.

Kylo rose, flinging away the thin blanket and throwing on a pair of Order-issue fatigues and tank. He hunted around for a second sock for a few minutes before giving up and pulling on his boots without them. It was seven minutes to one. He headed off for the General’s quarters, sensing his presence there, determination and irritation growing by the minute.

He arrived without fanfare, admitting himself with a wave of his hand.

The general was standing some yards from the door, at parade rest, cigarette in hand and cold sneer on his face. He was, for some bizarre reason, completely in uniform, despite his beta shift having ended some hours ago. The room was shadowed with twilight, lit only by the transparisteel viewport on the opposite wall. To his left, Kylo could barely make out two inky-black figures; the fourth was somewhere out of view.

“How kind of you to join us, Ren,” the general drawled, giving Kylo a disintrested once-over. “I don’t suppose you would care to make yourself more comfortable?”

Kylo reacted only a micron too late, jerking back too slow to keep the sniper’s forearm from snaking around his neck and digging into his throat. He seized the sniper’s other wrist, gripping it hard enough to crack bone—

The general was on him in an instant, applying a vice-like grip to Kylo’s balls. Kylo cried out through his teeth in pain and shock, letting go of the sniper’s arm out of reflex. The sniper trapped Kylo’s free arm to his side, digging his other arm harder into Kylo’s throat.

Kylo glared at Hux, using all his self-control not to wince, keeping a straight face. The general’s grip was cruel, but Kylo could tolerate great amounts of pain.

Hux’s eyes narrowed. He put his cigarette to his lips, drew in a breath, and let it out, breathing smoke very purposefully into Kylo’s eyes, making them water just slightly.

“Strip.”

“Fuck off,“ Kylo replied, then choked off a shout as Hux’s grip tightened further, twisting slightly. Kylo felt hot, humiliated, angry—he could easily throw them both off with the Force, he should have been able to—

“Boots. Off,” the general snapped.

Kylo pulled his lips off his teeth in a snarl, but complied, kicking at his heels and, with writhing, pathetic effort, prying off his boots one after the other. It took what felt like forever, with many failed attempts, but the general waited, patient, until he was done.

“Good,” the general said smoothly, and the unexpected praise made Kylo’s gut clench in ways it shouldn’t have. “Now your shirt.”

“I can’t,” Kylo managed to choke out, straining against the sniper’s death-grip on his neck. Another hot flash of humiliation swept down his spine, pooling in his cock, making it just a bit heavier.

Hux nodded fractionally and the sniper let go of his arm. Without hesitation, Kylo swung his elbow up into the clone’s face, smashing into his nose. The sniper stumbled back—

The general’s full weight slammed into him and, caught off balance, Kylo hit the wall, the back of his skull connecting with a dull _CRACK._ Pain shot through him; he couldn’t help but cry out this time—he was going to strangle the general, break his fragile bones—

“Your _shirt,_ Ren,” the general growled, dull green eyes alight, a few strands of perfectly coiffed hair falling into his face. His sharp face was drawn into a beastly snarl.

Kylo grinned at him, baring his teeth more than smiling. He’d broken through the general’s perfect calm, made him angry enough to show it. Hux _wanted._ Enough that he couldn’t hide it. “Of course,” Kylo said, sneering at the general’s snarling face. In one fluid movement he pulled off the dark tank, keeping his eyes trained on the general’s. He did not miss the quick flick of his eyes over Kylo’s body, the flash of the general’s tongue over his lips.

“Quiet,” Hux replied lazily, shaking the fallen hair out of his face and bringing his cigarette to his lips once more, taking a long drag. “Now your pants.”

“Or what?” Kylo asked impishly.

The general’s eyes met his own, coldly unamused. A searing pain pierced through him; Kylo gave an involuntary yell, biting it off only with an effort of will, abdomen clenching. Hux lifted his cigarette from Kylo’s skin, leaving behind a dark circle of ash on a raised, angry welt just above Kylo’s hipbone.

Gritting his teeth, Kylo obeyed, unzipping his fatigues and shucking them off, hating Hux more than he ever had. Now that he was completely naked, it was suddenly obvious to him how cold the quarters were kept, far below the _Finalizer’s_ customary chill.

“Good,” the general said again, more drawn out this time, voice velvety and smooth. His lips, perfectly curved and surprisingly full, were inches from Kylo’s own, his hard gaze never wavering from Kylo’s eyes. “Now that we’re all _settled_ , I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here.”

Kylo glared.

“We have a little something to _show_ you,” the general told him, the smell of smoke and a hint of brandy strong on his breath. “And, if you’re good, a little, ah, _audience participation_ planned.”

Kylo schooled his expression in to the closest to neutrality that he could get. Then, with all the coldness of vaccum, his heartbeat quick in his chest, he said, “I’m not interested.”

As if on cue, the sniper and engineer crossed into Kylo’s field of view, holding the poet between them. The poet was looked a bit lost in a uniform identical to the general’s own, minus the greatcoat—he didn’t have even the size of the general’s modest figure. His cheeks were already quite pink; his lust and excitement spooled out into the Force, almost tangible in its intensity.

The general smiled.

Kylo tried to break his gaze away from them but failed as the engineer reached into the poet’s fair hair, running his fingers through it as the sniper—his nose still bloodied—reached around the poet’s waist and undid his uniform belt, letting it clatter loudly to the floor. The three were pressed inseparably close; the engineer held the poet’s head and kissed him softly as the poet sighed into his mouth, leaning into the sniper’s embrace around his slim chest.

Kylo grit his teeth. The sniper fumbled with the front of the poet’s pants as engineer’s hands nimbly worked down the clasped front of the poet’s uniform tunic. The bloused pants fell down around the poet’s ankles, revealing his pink, pale thighs; he kicked off his boots just before the engineer shelled off the tunic—

“You’re interested, all right,” the general interrupted with a half-smirked quirk of his lips. The other three halted, the poet’s tunic wrapped around his chest in a teasing semblance of modesty. All three pairs of eyes were trained on him, the poet’s wide and innocent. “And so you’ll be good. Won’t you, Ren?”

Kylo swallowed. His cock felt heavy and stiff, the general’s bemused glance lingering there. He clenched his fists, breathing hard, attempting in vain to quell the desire burning over his skin. “Get on with it,” he growled, hate and shame and lust blazing in equal measure.

“Ah,” Hux said with a cruel smirk. “That’s not good enough, Ren. Tell us you _want_ it.”

Kylo forced down his pride. “I want it.” Then, at the general’s arched brow, he added, “ _Please.”_

Hux swiped fondly with a gloved hand at Kylo’s cheek; Kylo jerked away. The general frowned. “Don’t be cross, Ren,” he scolded, removing the pressure on Kylo’s balls. Kylo breathed out a grateful sigh of relief, relaxing slightly into the wall, the cold durasteel on his bare skin making him shiver. “Now come, let’s sit.”

The general about-faced neatly and made his way to his towering armchair, now arranged to be facing the foot of the bed. Kylo followed awkwardly, unsure. If Hux thought he was sitting anywhere _near_ him he had another thing coming—

“On the floor, Ren,” the general ordered. “Hands and knees.”

Kylo felt his ire flare to a near-breaking point. His hands balled into fists, his jaw working—

The poet fixed him with a pouting gaze, then lowered his eyes and brought his hands to his collarbones, splaying his fingers against his chest and pushing them slowly over his own body, sighing softly, arching back. It was a wanton, shameless display, entirely for Kylo’s benefit, and _kriff_ did it do things to him.

Kylo gave a soft growl through his teeth. Summoning all his resolve, he dropped purposefully to the floor, leaning over and putting his palms to the deck, lifting his head to give the general a glare that promised painful murder.

“Good boy,” the general said softly, crossing his legs neatly at the knee. He reached into his coat; a moment later, a short black leash dangled before Kylo’s eyes, one gloved hand caressing beneath Kylo’s chin. “One last thing. I promise.”

Kylo did not protest as the general affixed a thick collar around his neck, pulling it and fastening it tight, the soft leather of his gloves brushing Kylo’s skin. He did not protest when the general reached down and clipped the leash to the ring at the base of his throat, and did not protest when the general wrapped the leash around his hand and gave it a sharp tug, and did not protest when the general ruffled his hair with a careless, _“Good boy.”_

The general gave the other three a curt nod and the poet obediently crawled onto the mattress, the officer’s tunic still wrapped around his thin shoulders, his legs bent and splayed, leaning forwards on his hands, lips slightly parted. He gazed up at his brothers in rapt adoration. The sniper knelt behind him as the engineer settled in front of him; Kylo could feel their mounting excitement, his own desire tightening his chest. A thick collar like Kylo’s own was already tight around the poet’s slim neck.

With deft, practiced movements, the sniper took the poet’s wrists and tied them together with a broad strip of cloth, the band dark against the poet’s pale skin, then bound the poet’s ankles loosely to his thighs. The engineer concluded by placing another, wider band over the poet’s eyes and tying it around the back of his head. All three were already breathing hard, the poet giving a breathy moan as the sniper gave his collar a short jerk, pulling him upright.

The heaviness of Kylo’s cock had reached an unbearable point; he reached to take it in his hand—

The general gave his leash a harsh tug, the leather band pulling into Kylo’s throat. “If I see your filthy hands on your disgusting cock, I’m blindfolding you,” he hissed and Kylo _whined,_ actually whined, putting his palms back to the deck, flushed hot with resentment and bittersweet shame.

Kylo watched with rapt attention as the engineer and sniper each slicked their hands generously with lube. Then, in tandem, they reached down and teased the poet open, generously slow, massaging and pushing and stretching until they were all but finger fucking him, two fingers each, making him pant and arch back against the sniper’s hard shoulders, pink lips falling open—

The sniper withdrew and pulled out his already-hard cock, palmed it down with lube, then gripped the poet’s hips and pushed into him. The poet gave a low moan as the sniper began to thrust, gently at first, with practiced rhythm while the engineer fumbled with his own fatigues, clumsy with eagerness. The poet gave a drawn-out moan and arched further back a moment later when the engineer grabbed the poet’s waist and pushed into him none too gently. The poet gasped and clenched around the other two, his bound hands balled into fists at the small of his back; overwhelming arousal suffused the Force around him, suffocatingly thick. Kylo could feel almost perfectly what he did, the hard, invasive feeling of penetration, the shifting pressures of the two cocks inside him, fingers digging cruelly into his waist, the dizzying spectre of an orgasm melting in with the sharp, tearing pain—the thrill of objectification, being tied and fucked like a pretty doll—

The poet gave a distressed whine and Kylo realized belatedly that he’d projected his observations to him. _Objectification_ resonated in the poet’s overwhelmed mind like a plucked string; a disjointed whirlwind of fantasies spilled out quickly between them until Kylo could feel himself breathing hard in time with the poet’s breathless panting. Kylo _wanted_ him, wanted him like he’d never wanted anything before, wanted him with a petulant, angry fire that burned with a delicious resentment and powerlessness as the general pulled back on his leash just enough to choke off his breath.

The engineer came suddenly, clutching at the poet’s sweat-dampened hair and thrusting his hips weakly in the grip of an orgasm, then pulled out and cradled the poet’s straining body tight against his own shaking torso. He stroked the poet’s hair and shoulders, murmuring unintelligible praise against the poet’s ear.

The sniper kept thrusting, no longer as controlled, jaw clenched against the tide of pleasure threatening to overtake him, fucking the poet with reckless force. He hooked the fingers of one hand in the ring at the back of the poet’s collar, pushing him down with the other, choking him. Kylo could sense his stern determination to make the poet come, to give him pleasure regardless of its price in pain. The poet gave a strangled whimper at each thrust, trembling with terrible arousal. The sheer stimulation threatened to overwhelm him as he edged towards unconsciousness—

The sniper came and Kylo felt the poet’s flash of excitement at the hot rush, the fullness as sudden and satisfying as it was quick to ebb away. The poet sank into the engineer’s arms, shivering and desperate for release, still painfully hard. He groaned, his pretty lips were wet with saliva, his bonds painfully tight—

The sniper wrapped a strong hand around the poet’s cock and gave a few short, deft pulls; the poet came, hard, breathing out a hoarse cry. The engineer cradled him close, rubbing the poet’s bare back soothingly where he lay gasping in the engineer’s lap, splattered with his own come.

Satisfied, the sniper sat back on his heels, giving no indication of pleasure nor exertion other than the quick rise and fall of his sharp, scarred shoulders. Kylo, for his part, could distantly feel his own shoulders shuddering, his hips jerking uselessly, cock hard and heavy.

“Stop rutting like an animal.” the general ordered, and Kylo grit his teeth, his hands curling into fists, as if trying to dig into the durasteel deck with his fingers. He forced himself to be still—his entire nervous system was fairly on fire, he needed release more than he needed air, his pride—

“Please,” he said, the word feeling sharp and ungainly in his throat. “Please, I need— _fuck_ —“

“Is that how you address a general of the First Order, Ren?” the general asked, fixing him with the stern glare he might give an unruly cadet.

Kylo gave a useless growl of frustration, fixing his eyes stubbornly on the floor below him.

“Please, _sir_ , will you _please_ stop being such a fucking _jackass,_ sir, and let me fucking get myself off? _Sir,”_ he spat out with all the venom he could muster with his breath hitching and trembling in his chest.

The general raised an eyebrow. In perfect unison, all four of their expressions morphed into the same, perfect sneer.

“You have some learning to do, Ren,” the general said in that cruel, stupid voice of his, the same voice that damned planets and people and soldiers like it was all some terribly fascinating game of holochess.

Kylo’s erection was like a physical exertion, growing more painful by each passing moment, an aching, all-encompassing need. “Tell me what to do,” he ground out, unable to quash the seething resentment from his tone.

“Tell me what to do, _sir,_ ” the general corrected, and Kylo was dizzyingly close to closing off his throat with the Force. But then he heard himself repeat back the words, cloying and contrite, groveling like some lackey jockeying for promotion.

“Good,” the general said, his voice soft as velvet. “Come here. On hand and knee. I want to see you crawl.”

Kylo obeyed, trudging on sweaty palms and smarting knees closer to the general’s armchair. One immaculately shined boot jutted under his chin, stopping him. Then, uncrossing his legs as if without a care in the world, the general stood, the sniper appearing behind him to remove his greatcoat from his shoulders. The general sat, then extended a lazy hand, upturned fingertips pushing Kylo’s lips open and probing inside his mouth, the soft, supple leather of his gloves like a second skin to the touch. Kylo could taste the slight tang of whatever leathercare product Hux used, the vague salt of sweat.

“Suck,” the general commanded, and Kylo did, embarrassing himself with his own eagerness, pulling the general’s fingers powerfully into his mouth—

Kylo felt a sharp cuff to his ear and gave a growl of frustration, Hux’s hand—in his mouth past the knuckle—muffling it pathetically.

“You’re not a wild hyena, Ren, stop trying to take my fingers off,” the general snapped, drawing his hand sharply out of Kylo’s mouth. Kylo gave a high-pitched whine—he _wanted_ Hux, he _wanted—_

“Start again,” the general said, extending the gloved hand again, his index finger trailing a thin string of saliva from Kylo’s lips. “If you can’t even master this, I’m not letting your rabid jaws anywhere near my cock.”

The thought of the general’s cock in his mouth alone was enough to bring Kylo’s arousal to a straining point. With renewed, reckless determination, Kylo leaned in close, lapping gently at the general’s first two fingertips with his tongue, exhaling softly in between caresses, working lightly up and down the bottom half—

“Lips,” one of the clones, the engineer, Kylo thought, said, tone tinged with smugness. He halted, stopping to drag his parted lips alone down the glove’s crease. Then, carefully, he took the fingertips between his lips and pulled softly, teasing at the underside with the tip of his tongue, working up Hux’s slim, tapered fingers.

“Slowly,” interjected the sniper and Kylo growled wetly in the back of his throat, but worked slowly until the back of Kylo’s tongue was pressing hard into the general’s fingerpads, Kylo’s lips pulling back to accommodate more of Hux’s hand—

“Amateurish,” the poet sniffed—unbound and unblindfolded, still cradled in the engineer’s arms—and Kylo choked, frustration and desperation shattering his focus and control. He blinked away the pinpricks of tears—he’d done his best, he wasn’t a failure—

The general’s finger’s gave a short, sharp tug on the back of Kylo’s throat and he gagged, hard, lurching towards the deck as Hux’s gloved hand withdrew, covered thickly in saliva. Frowning in distaste, the general rubbed his glove into Kylo’s hair, withdrawing it damp but clean.

Kylo licked his lips, eyeing the slight strain in the general’s bloused pants hungrily. He’d proved himself good, hadn’t he? Despite what the others said. He’d been good. He’d learned quickly. It was far more than the general had ever had cause to praise him for.

The general noticed his gaze. His curved, dark pink lips curled upwards in something approaching dark satisfaction, eyes glinting with a fire that was fiercely territorial. “That’s not for you, Ren,” he said, and Kylo gave a soft, petulant whine, bottom lip pulling down. The general’s smile widened. “That’s the lesson for todayt. We are not _yours_ to fuck. Shocking, isn’t it? You’ve gone your whole, pathetic life bumbling along, taking whatever you want, sticking your clumsy paws and dick wherever you please. Life doesn’t work that way, _Kylo._ It’s high time you learned: you don’t put your grubby hands on us unless I say otherwise. Do you understand?”

Kylo nodded, swallowing hard, trying to school his trembling lips and watering eyes into something resembling neutrality, and failing. A harsh lump ached in his throat; he felt ridiculous, angry, humiliated, painfully aware of his throbbing, leaking cock and bare ass sticking up in the air, and felt even more ridiculous for somewhow finding a way to get off on it. This was all Hux’s fault, and he’d done it on purpose. Kylo wasn’t sure if he hated the general or himself more.

“Come closer,” the general ordered, and Kylo shuffled forwards, hardly daring to hope. The general uncrossed his leg and dug the top flat of his boot hard between Kylo’s legs.

Kylo whimpered, unable to stop himself from rutting reflexively against it, desperate for any sort of relief. No chastisement forthcoming, he began to grind his hips against the general’s boot in earnest. At first his clumsy, wild thrusts did nothing but frustrate him further, but he quickly found the right angle and speed and soon felt waves of pleasure crash through him with every thrust. Panting like an animal in heat, head bowed to trap the general’s knee between his neck and shoulder, at once ashamed and shameless—

Kylo came in an underwhelming rush, his muscles turning to wobbling jelly. The general withdrew his boot rather quickly, wrinkling his nose in undisguised disgust at Kylo’s come splattered heavily over the toe and up his calf. The general fixed him with a cold glare, nostrils flared and sneer ruthlessly pronounced.

“Clean up your filthy mess, Ren.”

Still panting harshly, Kylo lowered himself obediently to the floor, pushed down so that his chest almost touched the frigid floor, legs folded in a crouch, arms pressed to the floor, hands wrapped around Hux’s heel. He knew what he had to do. Glancing up briefly at Hux’s impassive face, Kylo opened his mouth and lapped at the general’s boot, licking the polished leather clean of his own come. The taste was bitter in his mouth; it took all his effort just to swallow it down, choking and gagging at the thick, bitter indignity.

This garnered no sympathy from the general, nothing but a cold, black pleasure that smarted distinctly of sadism. When Kylo was finished, had licked the boot clean to a spotless, almost dry finish, the general lifted his toe lazily, nestling the cold rubber sole under Kylo’s chin, tilting his face upwards. Kylo’s lips quirked in a snarl; he refused to meet the general’s eyes, angry, embarrassed, and bitter.

“Ren,” the general said patiently, in a way that suggested he could wait all night if necessary. Kylo unwillingly lifted his eyes to meet Hux’s, fixing him with an angry glower.

“Good boy,” the general said softly, voice smooth but matter-of-fact. There was not a trace of mocking in his velvety tone.

The wave of arousal that had been missing from his squeezed-out orgasm hit him with full force and Kylo whimpered, sinking to the deck in happy, quivering post-coital bliss.

The general stood sharply, holding out his arms so that the sniper could return his greatcoat to his shoulders. “Put him in the sanisteam. He reeks of sex,” Hux ordered, eyeing Kylo with a pragmatic air, then spun around neatly on his heel and headed off towards the bridge, minutes before the start of the alpha shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe the real plot was the blowjobs we met along the way
> 
> real talk tho the next chapter (next Monday) will launch into the actual...plot.....in chapter four...yeah...listen don’t give me that look u know what you’re here for


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update guys, RL leapt up and bit me in the ass? anyway to compensate this chapter is almost 10k so enjoy, my fellow sinners

A slender champagne glass sat on the pristine tablecloth, its fluted mouth tapering to slim stem, cutting a seductive crystal profile. Barely-colored bubbling liquid filled it in a fashionably small quantity. An impossibly loud _plip;_ a droplet of dark blood hit the surface and sank slowly, twisting and unfurling in lightening crimson tendrils—

A graphite sleeve wet with blood, flashes of white—a knife clenched in a pale hand—a wet gasp as a blade slashed at a grey-uniformed throat—

A lone blaster shot rang out—

 

 

Kylo jerked awake, scrambling upright, hand clenching automatically around the hilt of his lightsaber. Two of his Knights lay hands on his shoulder, concern emanating from them all in the Force.

_Was it a vision?_

Kylo nodded wordlessly, swallowing over a painfully dry throat. One Knight proffered a flask; Kylo accepted it and gulped down, internally cursing the parched Oberaan air.

 _You can share later,_ another said, then added, _he is here._

The translation was imprecise—there was no neat analogue for their Aqualish target’s gender in Basic—but the Knights had a tenuous grasp on pronouns as it was. Kylo leapt to his feet without question, the location already in mind. The thrill of the hunt ignited in his blood, shortening his breath and burning away the cold unease of his dream.

Kylo and the Knights charged into the market and were immediately overwhelmed by the sheer _noise_ and scale of it, the constant chatter and flux of emotion; Kylo had the impulse to cover his ears, feeling a harsh buzz in his mind that was close to the ringing of one’s ears. He filtered out the myriad of smells and tastes, the blunt smell of spices, the stale smell of sweat, the harsh heat of Oberaan’s binary suns—

 _There._ Together the Knights zeroed in on a chilled pocket of terror mixed with a harsh thrill of adrenaline—the target had seen them. Their fear would make them easy game to track.

Kylo raised a hand and strode into the throng, beings stumbling aside or outright fleeing in his path. He and the Knights cut a smooth path along the Aqualish’s trail. Kylo reached out into the deluge of minds and tore into the target’s, halting their fearful flight in its tracks.

This was greeted with intermingled approval and disappointment from the Knights, at once grimly satisfied with the all but confirmed kill but with a nagging disappointment at the loss of the chase.

 _Next time,_ Kylo promised, then strode to where the Aqualish stood, stock-still and trembling. Their every flight response was screaming for him to run, but they could not respond, creating an endless, terrible feedback loop of animal terror. The crowd fell back to provide a very large circle around them, the chatter hushing, every being tantalized to see what would happen next. Kylo could see most of the closest ones take out personal devices to film it.

Kylo stopped short of where the Aqualish was frozen. Their large, blue crustacean eyes stared at him in mute horror, the twin tentacles around his mouth twitching, his sparse teeth chittering in fear.

He ignited his lightsaber. The crowd gasped, fear and morbid fascination drawing them in; Kylo could feel their bated excitement, a mob’s love of an execution.

“For the attempted assassination of the appointed Governor of Obraadon,” Kylo said loudly, making his voice project over the crowd, then raised his lightsaber high and swung down in a powerful arc, ending his life.

The smell of ozone and charred flesh hung heavily in the air. The crowd erupted back into a wild, jubilant chaos. Kylo knelt over the corpse, examined the Aqualish’s clothes, pushing into his last thoughts and memories as they evaporated away.

 _Resistance soldier,_ he told the others, then stood, glancing up into the harsh orange sky—

Time seemed to dilate as Kylo swung around on impulse, leaping back and sending a warning pulse of alarm through their shared bond—

Blaster fire erupted all around them and the Knights’ sabers ignited with a responding chorus of _snap-hiss_ es, backing into a tight knot, back to back, batting away the deluge of fire with intense concentration, each diffusing themselves into the bond to respond together, acting as one body with fourteen arms and seven sabers, deflecting the bolts back into the soldiers that fired them—

As traps went, it wasn’t a particularly well thought-out one. The Resistance must have been getting desperate. Or—

“Shock net!” Kylo shouted.

The Knights scattered as a battered old gunship that could legitimately have come from the Old Republic swooped down overhead, an electrified net dropping where they had been huddled together just moments prior. Gritting his teeth, Kylo _reached,_ tearing at the gunship in the Force. Panels flew off, the engines spluttering and spilling smoke—the crowd began to scream, run every which way, chaos—the gunship careened out of control—

A spectacular explosion rocked the ground as the gunship hit the side of an empty skeleton of a building, erupting into a billowing fireball. Kylo felt the pilots’ minds wink out like tiny candles with furious satisfaction—a curt wave of his hand sent one of the remaining gunmen, the distractions, flying and into a solid duracrete retainer wall, another’s spine collapsing in upon itself, a third clutching suddenly punctured ribs with a terrible scream—

Kylo’s hands shook, his lightsaber blade wavering with ill-restrained fury. The Resistance had attacked his Knights. They—Leia Organa—had the gall to attempt to trap them in some silly baited trap; he’d kill them all, make them pay, watch as they begged for death—

A gentle nudge brought his rage-tunneled vision back into sudden focus.

 _We’re done here,_ the Knights reminded him. _Let us leave._

Kylo thumbed off his lightsaber and returned it to his belt, clenching his fists painfully tight to keep from lashing out. At the edge of his consciousness he could feel his Master’s summons, naggingly light, but would soon transform into colossal agony if the Supreme Leader felt he was being ignored. He turned around on his heel and followed the Knights back to their shuttle.

 

 

 

Hux was already in the Supreme Leader’s audience chambers when Kylo arrived, irritatingly punctual. It had been over a month since Kylo had seen him last; he could have sworn the general’s hair had grown, just a bit, the ever-present sneer affixed to his face the same as always. Something in his perfectly-pressed uniform bothered Kylo immensely. He fought to keep his embarrassment hidden, away from his Master.

“Ren,” Hux greeted with vaguely disgusted antipathy.

“General,” Kylo growled back, joining him on the transmission dais, as always fighting to keep himself from choking the man and being done with it. He felt himself fidgeting, anxious, waiting for his Master to speak. Did he know—was he angry—?

“Kuat Drive Yards,” Snoke began suddenly, then broke off, expectant, clearly waiting for either or both of them to say something. Kylo felt utterly unprepared for the line of conversation—had their shipyards been attacked? Had they betrayed the Order? Anything was possible.

“What about them, Supreme Leader?” Hux asked cautiously, his expression guarded yet unable to hide a ghost of confusion. Kylo couldn’t help but feel immensely comforted the general did not seem to follow, either.

“Nieguen Sienar, holder of Kuat Drive Yards and Sienar Systems, has invited you both as the First Order’s high command to his personal soiree,” the Supreme Leader informed him. To Hux’s confused frown, he added with a vague wave of his hand, “if not already, soon.”

“Why would Sienar ask such a thing?” Kylo asked with a frown. “Surely he knows we are too busy to attend—a moment’s inattention and the Resistance—if not that, then I must search for the map—“

“Quiet, Lord Ren,” Snoke admonished, and Kylo fell silent instantly, heart pounding madly. “It seems our friend Sienar is making a statement to the New Republic—a statement for them to up their contracting bid, no doubt, but it benefits us nonetheless. You both will attend to ensure the event proceeds to our plans.”

“And what plan is that, Master?” Kylo asked, contrite in his ignorance. Snoke’s wisdom in these things was near-infinite—Kylo knew his vision to far exceed the general’s or his own.

Snoke gave a thin grimace that could be seen as an actual smile. “The only plan that matters,” he said. “The complete and utter dissolution of the New Republic and their paltry Resistance.”

And with that, the transmission fizzled and cut. The general scowled. “Astroid field,” he said, turning curtly to the massive transceiver built specially to receive the Supreme Leader’s missives. “Metalloid interference—must be using a cross-wave banding pattern—we won’t get the signal back for a few hours.”

“He was finished, anyways,” Kylo said, sensing no displeasure from Snoke; rather his absence, a clear sign the audience was concluded.

“Excellent,” Hux said, then spun around on his heel and started for the hall—

“Where are you going?” Kylo demanded, starting after his rapidly-departing back. “We need to discuss this—this— _soiree—“_

“That will be simple,” Hux replied shortly without turning around even slightly, marching through the parting doors. “I will do all the talking, and you will sit back, preferably tucked away somewhere secluded, making no noise and pretending you don’t exist.”

Kylo scowled. “General—“

“I have nothing more to say to you.” Hux said, then started down the long corridor outside Snoke’s audience chambers—

Kylo _moved,_ slamming the general’s slim form forcefully into the wall behind him. His head connected with the durasteel with a sharp _crack_ ; Kylo seized him by the shoulders and gave him a violent shake, gratification flooding through him like a drug to treat the object of so many long hours of agonizing lust and anger this roughly. Kylo leaned into him, pressing him into the wall with his body, thrusting the edge of his hip between the general’s legs, pinning his thin wrists to the wall, the faceplate of his mask inches from the general’s angular face.

Hux eyed him with unamused boredom. “Are you quite done, Ren?”

“No,” Kylo growled. Keeping Hux’s wrists bound in place with the Force, he reached up and removed his helmet, then dropped it. It crashed to the deck with a heavy _THUNK_. “I’m not.”

One copper eyebrow raised. “Is that supposed to impress me, or intimidate me?”

Kylo grabbed his narrow waist and half-kissed, half-bit at his jaw, his cheek, his mouth, scraping the skin with his teeth, tearing at his lips. Salty blood welled in his mouth; he dropped to where the general’s shoulder met his neck and bit, hard enough to bruise through the thick fabric of Hux’s uniform. Over a month’s worth of frustrated desire and hatred flooded through—he wanted to fuck him, hard, make him beg—

“I know what you want.” Hux’s voice was soft and mocking in his ear. “I know you’ve been thinking about it. Palming your ridiculous cock to it furtively at nights. Hating it. _Wanting it._ Haven’t you?”

Kylo growled through his teeth, rolling his hips sharply against Hux’s, drawing a faint gasp of discomfort from the general. “You can’t escape like that, general,” he snarled. “How does it feel to be powerless? So _fragile_. You couldn’t possibly resist me if you wanted to. Are you going to struggle? Put up a fight, even though it’s in vain?”

Hux gave him his most contemptuous sneer. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ren. You’re like a Reek chasing airspeeders. You wouldn’t possibly know what to do with me once you’ve caught me.” His sharp green eyes narrowed. “How many times have you practiced this idiotic little speech? Did you recite it in front of the mirror, fantasizing about how you’d tear off my clothes and fuck me like an animal? How I’d beg and squirm?”

“No,” Kylo snapped, ire flaring dangerously, grip tightening on the general’s wrists. “I mean yes—you know I can take what I want—“

“And _I_ know what you want,” Hux replied, voice velvety-soft in his ear. “You want my cock in your mouth, to take the pleasure you didn’t get _last_ time. Isn’t that right, _Lord_ Ren?”

Kylo swallowed, hot shame burning at his face and ears. “No, that’s not—“ he broke off, betraying himself by looking down. Hux’s erection pushing lazily at his pants. Kylo swallowed again; he suddenly felt parched, hungry, he wanted— “That’s not true.”

Hux smirked. “Go on.”

Kylo gave a distressed whine, then tore off the general’s belt and tossed it aside, fumbling with his pants. Hux watched him lazily as he dropped to his knees, opening his mouth to suck powerfully at his cock—

“Have you learned nothing, Ren?” he asked and Kylo clenched his hands into fists, forcing himself to be in control. He bit at the general’s pale inner thigh, sucking at the flesh, dragging his tongue over to Hux’s stiffening cock, then lapping torturously slow over the underside, pressing a wet, admittedly sloppy kiss to the tip.

“Good,” Hux said, obviously satisfied, and Kylo took him in his mouth, chest flooding with pride at the praise, suckling at the head until he drew heavy panting from the general, his jaw set, eyes shut. Something hot and needy coiled in Kylo’s gut like a spring. He gripped the general’s pale thighs, digging his fingers into the slight muscle, taking him in further, sucking harder.

Hux groaned, rocking his hips into him, pushing further into Kylo’s mouth. Kylo moaned around him, flushed and now sweating at the near-unbearable heat, fighting down the tugging sensation of his gag reflex as the general’s cock entered his throat.

The unintentional pulsing brought Hux’s steadily mounting orgasm to a sudden climax and he came, shuddering in Kylo’s grip, heat pouring down his throat. Kylo swallowed reflexively, the heat at his cheeks unbearable—he needed to breathe—

Hux withdrew and Kylo gasped gratefully for air, dropping down on his palms, refusing to meet Hux’s gaze, burning with damnably intermingled pleasure and shame.

A gloved hand ruffled his hair fondly, then took his chin, wiping carefully at his lips. Kylo looked up; Hux’s hair had fallen down around his ears—he wasn’t—

“You,” he said, confusion and humiliation and fury all colliding with one another. “You’re—you’re not—“

“Thank you, Lord Ren,” the engineer said with a wink, giving his cheek a fond pat as he zipped up his pants. “Your technique really has improved. I’ll be sure to inform the General. Give you a good, ah, performance review. He places great stock in those things, you know.”

Kylo glowered, the after-halo of pleasure burning away and leaving nothing but bitter embarrassment. “Fuck you.”

“Maybe some other time,” the engineer replied, running a hand through his copper hair and righting it back into a vague semblance of the general’s perfect coiffure. “Is this really how you always are together? All hot and heavy? I really will have to try this roleplaying thing some more—“

“Where is he?” Kylo demanded, pushing himself to his feet with all the dignity he could manage, which was very little.

“On the bridge,” the engineer responded easily, wiping the bright blood from his lips with the back of his gloved hand. “We’ve been skirmishing with the Resistance for almost a week now. It’s brewing to be a full-out battle, the commander can’t leave the bridge.”

Kylo stared. “So you mean—“

“We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other very soon,” the engineer finished brightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected back soon. And, just a piece of advice, if you ever feel the need to say ‘I can take whatever I want’ again, I suggest you go and wank it off for a few minutes, you got me?”

A muscle jumped in Kylo’s jaw. He raised a hand; his helmet impacted his palm with a dull _thunk._ “Leave.”

The engineer tossed him a poor affectation of a salute and another impudent wink, then turned and headed off.

Kylo hated him.

 

 

 

Kylo tugged angrily at the stiff collar of his uniform, finding it suffocatingly tight. The entire uniform was too tight, lacked mobility. He felt ridiculous in the bloused pants, the primly turned-down collar, the snug tunic. The fabric chafed at his skin; he longed for the freedom of his robes, the facelessness of his mask—

The poet and engineer watched him squirm with identical expressions of unconcealed delight on their faces. “It’s your turn, Lord Ren,” the poet told him, gesturing with his cards.

Kylo hated sabaac. And not because he was bad at it. No, Han Solo had made sure that no relative of his could ever be accused of being bad—or honest—at cards. He hated sabaac precisely because it reminded him of being crowded into the musty old booth of the _Falcon,_ of home. Home, as suffocating as the too-tight uniform, then later, alone, when he’d yearn for that same suffocating parental attention—

Kylo tossed out a card at random, then, before anyone could claim his punishment, struggled out of the uniform tunic and tossed it aside with a grateful sigh. The pants still dug into his hipbones but at least he could breathe.

The engineer and poet gave him obvious once-overs, the latter biting at his pink lip. The sniper played his card wordlessly, then swiped another, barely looking up. The poet, already down to nothing but a thin white undershirt and tight, viciously short shorts, played his card, soon to be swept by the engineer. Kylo still wasn’t sure whether he was seriously bad at cards or just really enjoyed strip sabaac.

With a labored sigh, the poet took the hem of his shirt and pulled it up over his head with a deft twist of his arms, his back arching slightly, wet tongue playing over his lips. Kylo couldn’t help but notice the soft pinkness of his nipples, the way his translucent lashes swept downwards over his eyes, the curve of his ass. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry.

“This is boring,” the poet announced, tossing his shirt aside and sitting back down on his heels with a definite pout. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

“Winner fucks the loser,” the engineer reminded him teasingly. This had been proposed mostly as a joke—according to the navicomputer, there wasn’t enough time on their journey to Abraxis to definitively win or lose a game.

“ _Fine_ ,” the poet huffed in a way that suggested he wasn’t nearly as annoyed by this as he pretended. “Then I’ll pick a winner now. Show me your cards.”

Obediently, Kylo, the sniper and engineer laid out their cards for inspection. None of them were particularly spectacular hands—Kylo and the sniper had only one good card each. The poet leaned over the table, his light hair falling in his face, long bare legs stretching languidly beneath him, making a great show of looking each card over. Kylo tried not to think about how his pale legs would feel wrapped around his waist and failed miserably.

“Lord Ren wins,” the poet declared suddenly and Kylo wished deeply he still had his mask to hide his face, attempting to school it into a neutral expression, feeling his cheeks redden.

“His hand is just as good,” the engineer protested, gesturing to the impassive sniper. “Why not him?”

“Because I let him win last time,” the poet replied without pause, making no move to put on his clothes. To Kylo he said, “I wouldn’t get too comfortable in that uniform.”

Then he laid back down and put his head in the engineer’s lap, his feet in the sniper’s, humming in quiet contentment as the engineer toyed with his hair.

Kylo quickly excused himself, making up some awful excuse about checking on the navicomputer. The engineer and the poet giggled snidely but made no other comment. The sniper watched him go wordlessly, expression unchanged. Kylo spent the entire fifteen-minute descent into Abraxis’ major spaceport wishing desperately either for a glass of water or a way to tell his dick to stop throbbing.

 

 

Abraxis was clearly an affluent world, full of towering spires and glittering transparisteel. In the distance Kylo could make out the teeming mass housing projects, black holes of despair in the Force. The rose-pink sky stretched above them, dotted with bleeding orange clouds, the local star staining a large round red hole in the delicate sky as dipped out of view. Kylo strongly suspected the natural environment was not nearly so picturesque—he imagined Abraxii City had done some form of low-level terraforming, dumping some foreign element in the upper atmosphere to achieve that rare red-orange glow. The disparity was not lost on him at all.

“You did well,” the poet said suddenly, attention still fixed on the datapad in front of him. “On Obraadon. The video footage of the execution has gone viral. No civilians were harmed. The ‘Net is blaming the Resistance for the attacks.” He gave a wry smile. “And, of course, the public would never miss a good execution.”

The sniper, wearing the nondescript black suit of a bodyguard, dark solarshades covering his eyes and emphasizing the scar trailing down to his jaw and into the collar of his shirt, snorted softly but did not turning his gaze from the airlane in front of him. He was a good pilot; under his control, the airspeeder dipped and turned smoothly from lane to lane, carving the quickest path through the dense traffic. A pleasurable breeze rustled his hair; he felt calm, almost happy.

“I didn’t think of it in terms of PR,” he admitted. “I had a target. We struck a blow at the Resistance. That’s what matters.”

“You _think_ that’s what matters,” the poet corrected. “But how the Order’s actions are _seen_ is what really determines our support among Republic worlds—even among our home worlds. Presentation is everything. On Obraadon we were strong, unassailable, but fair. In the right, even. It’s a powerful piece of media for us, it’s been given full circulation.”

Kylo had to admit he hadn’t entirely thought of it that way. He was familiar with the constant obsession with appearance from Ben Solo’s childhood—more than once he had been chewed out by Leia Organa for doing something to anger the public, no matter whether he’d actually done something worth anger or not. It had felt dualistic, unfair, and had played not a small role in why he’d agreed to go off to Luke’s fledgling Jedi school in the far reaches of fucking nowhere.

“I did what I did,” he said shortly. “How the galaxy interprets it is their problem.”

“ _My_ problem,” the poet corrected. “If you could convince Captain Phasma to stop razing places when she’s done with them, it would lower my stress level considerably.”

Kylo smiled fondly. Yes, Phasma did have a concerning love of fire and cleaning out lowlife. He interpreted it as a very practical manifestation of the Order’s desire to bring order and clean up the galaxy—one village of Republic sympathizers at a time.

“All this stuff is irrelevant compared to the Starkiller Base,” the engineer said dismissively. He was back in the general’s uniform, his unruly hair lacquered back into the general’s distinctive style. “Once its power is demonstrated—and our willingness to use it—the Resistance would have to be mad to continue fighting. We’re effectively taking their worlds hostage: wherever they make camp is under threat of death. They can’t keep up their freedom fighting routine while risking the lives of the inhabitants of whoever’s planet they’ve stolen.”

The sniper shook his head, tapping his gloved fingers on the airspeeder controls. “Talk is one thing. Taking the shot is another. Ending one life is hard enough. But billions? You should hope you’re not capable.”

Kylo couldn’t help be surprised that he’d spoken, but part of him couldn’t help but agree. Neither the poet or the engineer had killed a living being. He doubted they truly understood what it meant to end another life. He knew he was losing sight of the meaning himself.

“Billions in one shot, or trillions in full-scale galactic civil war?” the poet countered, almost lazily. “Nearly fifty billion lives were lost in the fight against the Rebellion. With the Republic more entrenched than the Rebels, that figure would only escalate.”

“What object is death for stability?” the engineer countered. “Beings die all the time, from poverty, starvation, labor, murder. If we can do away with those, the galaxy will thrive. In the long run the cost is not objective.”

Kylo shrugged. These things did not particularly concern him. Light and dark, good and evil—they were all distractions from power. Power was the only thing that ensured freedom—true freedom. The power the Order sought was not true power: it bound them to a goal, a system, responsibility, bound them until they were so bound tight they could barely move.

Kylo’s freedom was of another sort. He answered to no one other than his Master, except when he so chose.

The rest of the ‘speeder ride passed in silence, punctuated occasionally by passing vehicles or traffic signals. Nieguen Sienar’s personal dwelling was the largest in-atmo hull built for personal use—Lando would always tell him stories of how big, how rich, how unimaginably sumptuous it was under the care of the late Rath Sienar, Nieguen’s father, usually punctuated by tales of all the people he’d swindled there in his youth.

Now, Kylo had to imagine, with the merger of Sienar Systems and KDY, Nieguen Sienar had even more wealth to flaunt. He wasn’t sure whether he was interested or dreaded it.

 

 

“Welcome, General, Lord Ren,” a bright-eyed young Cathar greeted them. Her eyes were a clear blue and her fur pure white—Kylo recognized this to be very rare. “Please, your suite is this way. Would you like to have your luggage delivered?”

“We’ll take it,” the sniper said coolly, making no move to surrender the few cases to the Devorian or Bith in porters’ uniforms.

“Of course,” the Cathar said—Kylo vaguely recalled her saying her name was Doryn—her cheerful expression not missing a beat. “If you’ll follow me?”

Kylo was no stranger to opulence—the New Republic was famous for its excesses, especially compared to the humble First Order worlds—but even he found himself taken aback, marveling at the depth of the depraved luxury.

Dantooinian crystal-lattice chandeliers as big as a speeder, Devorian ferrofluid sculptures stories high, every surface, no matter how mundane, made in or covered in some rare or precious material. And not just metals—Kylo recognized an entire structure made of Kashyyyk heartwood, for which countless holy trees would have been sacrificed, the carpets the finest of Terkion wool, no doubt hand-woven. The architecture was similarly impressively impractical, each floor boasting central hollow and banister, revealing a huge, glittering chasm of all the other floors.

Doryn led them to a more private area, assuring them that they had been placed in the finest suite available. Kylo sensed the sniper’s mild amusement and the poet’s wide-eyed wonder; not for the first time he wondered whether this was the first they’d seen of the worlds outside the _Finalizer._

Grudgingly, he had to concede that the whole ostentatious thing was done quite elegantly, if a rather gaudy to his own ascetic tastes.

Doryn led them down a long series of corridors to at last arrive at their rooms. Swiping an access card, she stepped into a huge, vault-ceilinged living space, lit by a gigantic viewport that seemed almost more dangerous than decorative. Two beautiful, shapely couches sat at each end, state-of-the-art holoprojectors and sound systems concealed in the walls. A ridiculously ornate bathroom sat at the end, a huge tiled atrium with a bath big enough to comfortably sit a bantha. Four doors branched off from the main space, ostensibly containing separate bedrooms.

The engineer wore a somewhat bored expression Kylo imagined Hux would display at this spectacle, but inside his mind was whirring dizzyingly, in awe of the marvel in front of them. _It shouldn’t even fly,_ he thought, and Kylo agreed.

“Is this satisfactory?” Doryn asked, a bit nervously. “I can show you the other suites—“

“This is perfectly sufficient, thank you.” the engineer said, snapping back to reality. “I trust we will be issued access cards?”

“In your rooms,” Doryn replied immediately, relief flooding through her. “Is there anything else?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, and she gave them formal Cathar bow before exiting.

The poet opened his mouth—

The sniper held up a gloved hand, cutting him off. Wordlessly, the engineer opened the case the sniper had carried and drew out a slim device, powering it on. He followed the display, rooting around in the furniture for a while, then drew out a tiny device no bigger than a thumbnail. A microchip.

Kylo nodded, understanding. Stretching out into the Force, Kylo tuned into the listening device’s miniscule frequency, searching for more of the same. After nearly an hour they collected nearly twenty more. Satisfied that they’d located them all, the sniper swept the pile into his palm, opened the door and walked a ways down the hall, then tossed the whole handful onto the floor.

The engineer nodded; Kylo returned the gesture.

“We’re clean,” the sniper said shortly, then made straight for the minibar.

“Oh no,” the poet said. “There’s two beds.”

“There’s two in every room in this suite,” Kylo said, glancing into the darkened rooms. The sniper was currently fiddling with the holoprojector by the couch with fogblaster number two.

The poet and engineer gave him identical pouting frowns, the latter’s expression very incongruous with the general’s appearance.

Kylo sighed. “Fine.”

Two minutes later they’d shoved two of the huge beds together, large enough for four people to sleep side by side. Kylo couldn’t recall the last time he’d shared a bed with someone; it seemed the brothers never slept apart. He noticed that they were completely inseparable: if even a door was shut between them they grew uneasy and went to open it. He could feel how deeply they all missed the General without even trying—it was like a constant, physical ache, accompanied by high anxiety and no small amount of paranoia.

Reflexively, Kylo felt for his Knights’ presence. They were there, a soothing presence at the back of his mind, a familiar weight like a smooth pebble in his pocket.

“We’re expected in less than half an hour,” the engineer told him, lying down on bed as the poet bounced in wonderment next to him, pulling at his hand. “We’ll make the rounds tonight, kiss babies and shake hands—don’t give me that look, that’s exactly what we’re doing,” he added to the poet’s admonishing glare— “and then get out when they start getting really drunk, I’m not feeling up to an orgy.”

“ _I’m_ feeling up to an orgy,” the poet interjected quickly, lying his head on the engineer’s chest.

“You’re always up to an orgy,” the engineer replied, petting the poet’s hair, and the poet gave a guilty grin.

“I know how these things go,” Kylo interrupted, sitting down awkwardly on the glass caf table. “Don’t worry about me.”

The engineer raised an eyebrow, fiddling with the ornate chrono next to him. The general’s cap had fallen off his head and his copper hair was spilling out around his head. “I wouldn’t have guessed the Knights of Ren do that much socializing.”

Kylo did not immediately respond. Being royalty from a dead planet came with all the responsibility and idiotic protocol lessons and none of the actual perks. “Oh, very much so.”

The engineer smirked. “Well, freshen up and let’s go, social butterfly.”

 

 

“General,” a man Kylo vaguely recognized to be Nieguen Sienar exclaimed, holding his arms wide and grinning with bright, perfectly square teeth. His mahogany skin glowed in the perfect ambient light, his dark, almost black eyes sparkling with genuine delight. He wore a perfectly cut black suit with a crisp white dress shirt and a tie that looked like it were made of liquid gold. He embraced the engineer, who returned the gesture with a bit more warmth than Hux would have. “You made it. This is Lord Ren, I presume?”

“It is,” Kylo said with a polite incline of his head. “Nieguen Sienar?”

Sienar beamed. “The one and the same, I’m afraid.”

“You have a lovely dwelling,” Kylo threw out a bit desperately, wracking his brain for things he’d heard Leia say.

Sienar laughed, viewing his sumptuous surroundings with amusement. “I can’t say I live here. This is more of a company vessel, these days. But I grew up here. Lots of memories.”

“You’ve done a beautiful job with her,” the engineer said, smiling at Sienar with his eyes. “I’m sure my father would have loved to see it.”

“I hope so,” Sienar smiled. “Some days I fear _my_ father would have turned over in his chamber to see what I’ve done with her, not to mention the company, but I suppose that comes with the territory. Change,” he added. “Now I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t spend the evening with you, no matter how much I might like to. So many people to speak with,” he added, a bit ruefully.

“Don’t worry about it,” the engineer said with an easy smile unlike any Kylo had ever seen on the real general’s face. “We must speak at more length, sometime.”

“Sometime,” Sienar promised, clasped the engineer’s hand, then apologetically turned to stride away to another guest.

“He sure is chatty,” Kylo commented, watching the young man go no small amount of anxiety.

“Don’t underestimate him,” the engineer warned, his gaze scanning lightly over the burbling crowd. “He may seem harmless, but he inherited his father’s ruthless sense for business, and then some. He studied at the Academy under the Empire and did quite well. A star pupil of our father’s.”

“Your father taught at the Academy?” Kylo asked.

The engineer nodded. “On Arkanis. Nieguen Sienar was one of his favorite students, and not just because of the name. He would have made a brilliant officer, if he’d pursued the Navy instead of taking over Sienar Systems.”

“So he was responsible for the merger with KDY?”

“That was him, yes,” the engineer said with a thin smile. “Kuat-Sienar is now the biggest military supplier in the galaxy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes after BlasTech next.”

Kylo could now see why Snoke might insist they curry the favor of such a man. Controlling that much industry would make Nieguen Sienar a vital asset to the Order’s war machine.

Next they spoke to a tawny-skinned woman with long, dark hair and sharp eyes who represented the Core Workers’ Union, then a tall, light-skinned Muun who was with the Intergalactic Banking Clan, then an unusually small Sullustian who was a high-ranking delegate from Coruscant itself. At some point they all began to bleed together in Kylo’s mind; he’d never had the finesse for names and faces that Leia had. After nearly six hours of endless faces and names and occupations that Kylo couldn’t care less about, they retired back to their quarters.

The poet was standing on the bed surrounded by a sea of discarded flimsies, gesturing and mumbling as he paced back and forth across the mattress. He wore nothing but an oversized shirt that came down around his thighs. “...of a regime that submits...no, aquits...ugh, no... _acquiesces_ , _there_ , to disorder—“

“We’re back,” the engineer said and the poet’s head jerked up, his face lightening in delighted surprise. Kylo dropped onto the couch nearest him and groaned, unbuttoning the first few clasps of the tunic of his uniform and then giving up.

The poet stepped off the bed and threw his arms around his two brothers, burying his face in the sniper’s chest. The engineer stroked his hair as the sniper embraced him gently, clearly relieved to be reunited. The ritual complete, the sniper made for the holoprojector and the engineer to the bath.

The poet picked his way over to Kylo and climbed into his lap, sitting astride him, settling his long legs around Kylo’s hips. His slim fingers started at the clasps of his uniform, nimble and quick; within a few moments he’d freed him from the tunic and started on his pants. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, then pulled up his shirt around his waist. Kylo’s gut clenched. The poet had slicked himself so thoroughly with lube that it had dribbled down the insides of his thighs. Kylo pushed a finger gently into him and found the flesh soft and yielding—he’d worked himself hard to make himself ready.

Kylo took his thin waist and pushed his hands up the poet’s back, then pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. “Did you do all that with your fingers?” he asked.

The poet nodded shyly.

Kylo had a powerful vision of him kneeling on the mattress, fingers pushed far up his own ass, rocking back and forth on his hand as he worked himself open.

“You must have been expecting me to fuck you very hard,” Kylo said, and the poet flushed, nodding again. Kylo brushed his thumb over one very pink nipple, which hardened immediately. “Is that what you want?”

The poet gave a tiny moan, nodding very quickly, his sharp cheekbones flamingly pink.

Kylo took his waist and made to stand up, letting the poet wrap his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist, then stood, carrying him over to the mattress and depositing him there none to gently. He lay obediently on his back, legs spread, arms hoisted over his head—

Kylo rolled him over roughly and pushed his legs apart, climbing onto the bed and kneeling behind him, fumbling with his pants. He was already half-hard; grabbing the poet’s waist where he propped himself up on only his knees and raising the poet’s hips to meet his own cock brought his erection to a straining point. Taking a handful of the poet’s hair, he pushed the clone’s head down and pulled it back, eliciting a soft moan.

Kylo pushed into him, marveling at the blissful, velvety feel of his well-prepared ass. The poet groaned; Kylo snapped his hips against him and felt the poet shudder and brace himself with his elbows as he pushed in further. The poet pushed back against him, taking Kylo in deeper until he felt the poet strain against him.

Then he began to fuck him, slowly at first, then faster, thrusting against him with enough force to draw breathy cry from him each time. Kylo leaned into him, pressing his weight on top of him, and the poet moaned long and deep, his body shuddering in the grip of intermingled pain and pleasure, Kylo all but pushing him into the mattress.

Orgasm pulled at him like a persistent tide but Kylo clenched his teeth and kept going, trying to ignore the hot silky muscle clenching around his cock. At last the poet gasped as Kylo found the right angle to abuse his prostrate; a few hard thrusts and the poet was squirming around him, trapped beneath him and desperate for release.

Kylo himself was close to coming, he could feel his toes curling against it. He seized the poet’s wrists and squeezed, forcing himself to breathe as he poet pressed against him, moaning and panting and thrusting back against him with reckless abandon—

Kylo came in a dizzying rush, his vision whiting out as he gasped out, hoarse and overwhelmed. Pushing the poet fully into the mattress, he ground him into the sheets with his hips, letting the friction stimulate his cock enough to .

The poet came with an agonized moan and collapsed bonelessly beneath him, trembling in the grip of an orgasm. Kylo made no attempt to roll off him, lying draped over his slight form, soft cock still up his ass. The poet, for his part, seemed perfectly content to lie beneath him in his arms and snuggled against him, letting Kylo’s legs wrap around his own.

“Well, while you two are at it like gundarks in heat, we’re going to go get something to eat,” the engineer announced, and Kylo startled, rolling off to the side. The poet whimpered when he pulled out and Kylo felt a stab of guilt, feeling the poets’ body smart sharply as he moved.

The sniper and the engineer stood by the door, looking somewhere between amused and skeptical.

“Don’t leave the room, if there’s any retina or facial scans, we don’t want all hell breaking loose,” he added, fixing them both with a stern glare. “It might take a while, but we’ll bring something back.”

Kylo nodded. “Fine.”

They left, the sniper giving Kylo a long, neutral look before disappearing through the door.

The poet grabbed Kylo’s arm as they left and gazed at him with pleading eyes. “Again,” he said, attempting to push himself upright and failing.

“Absolutely not,” Kylo said, helping him upright and shifting him back onto the cushions, summoning a bottle of water and putting it to the poet’s pretty lips. “Have some water.”

The poet drank obediently, letting Kylo stroke awkwardly at his light hair and brush away the nearest stray flimsies onto the floor. “I’m hungry,” he mumbled, blinking owlishly at the lamplight.

“I’ll go get something,” Kylo promised. “Unless you want to go with me. See more of the ship before we leave. They say there’s a real original copy of the _Encyclopedia Galacticus,_ that sounds like something you’d like.”

“I can’t leave,” the poet said quickly, sitting up and pulling the sheets around his shoulders. “Two at a time is a risk enough.”

Kylo smirked. “I can deal with the cameras. Do you want to go?”

The poet looked torn for a moment, then said, “I can’t go like this.”

“Do you have something to wear?” Kylo asked, silently crowing over the victory. Shirt and shorts was probably not going to fly on a vessel this ornate. They could order something, though he doubted even a place this affluent could do delivery on a time scale of an hour. Also, he’d always been rather vague about money. Did the Order even pay him? It was all a mystery.

The poet nodded shyly, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I do.”

 

 

Fifteen minutes later the poet emerged from the closed bedroom, sending jitters of nervousness out in the Force. He bit at his lip, eyes averted. “What do you think?” he asked, a bit timidly.

For a moment Kylo was too floored to respond. Recovering a few mental fragments, he managed to stammer out, “Uh, great. Definitely good.”

‘Definitely good’ was an understatement. The poet wore a long, inky midnight blue evening gown, the sheer, sequined material clinging closely to his long, slim form. The skirt itself was almost translucent, fading into the dark, shorter skirt underneath and pooling dramatically around his ankles. The low cut and open back advertised almost-white skin and a dusting of light freckles, the long, nearly clear sleeves emphasizing the slenderness of his arms. His light hair hung around his long neck, beautiful even when a post-sex mess.

The poet crossed his arms over his slim chest and stuck out his lower lip. “Just good?”

“Fantastic. Great. Beautiful,” Kylo babbled. He wished he was better with words—until recently, he didn’t do much talking out loud. Communicating with his Knights was much easier. He extended an arm awkwardly, which the poet accepted. “Shall we?”

The poet gave him a pretty smile. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

Nudging aside the cameras and unfocusing the sensors as they passed was almost a childishly simple task. Kylo retraced his steps back to the main area, the open space now transformed into a colony of tables tended by attentive wait staff.

The poet marveled openly at the shining lights and sparkling chandelier, the opulent carpets and slim wax candlesticks, the gorgeous trimmed plantlife artfully arranged on the tables, his pale eyes wide and his pink lips parted slightly in wonder. Kylo couldn’t help but enjoy his wonder, feeling his observations spool out rapidly through his mind.

“Lord Ren,” a voice said. Kylo turned around, finding a tall, thin-faced man behind him, his thick, wavy blonde hair swept back. He didn’t recognize him at all.  
  
The man offered a gracious smile. “Forgive me. Corsair Rahm. We met earlier this evening.”

“Of course,” Kylo replied, taking Rahm’s extended hand and shaking it. Vague memories nagged at the back of his mind at the sight of his grey eyes and stiff bearing—ex Navy? Imperial? He couldn’t be sure.

“Pardon the interruption," Rahm continued. To the poet he said, “I haven’t had the pleasure, Master...?”

“Verjel,” the poet supplied smoothly, offering him a lovely smile and extending his hand, which Rahm brought formally to his lips with a bow. Kylo felt a hot stab of ire from the poet that was at odds with his coy expression. “Pleasure to have your acquaintance, Master Rahm.”

“Likewise,” Rahm replied, his gaze sliding up and down the poet’s body and resting on his face. “I’m afraid I’ve interrupted you too much already. Good evening, Master Verjel, Lord Ren,” he said with another small bow, then about-faced and headed off, bearing regal.

The poet watched him go with an amused wrinkle to his nose, then took a seat at a table nearest the banister, peering over the edge to gaze at the floors below. The candlelight lit his smooth features perfectly; shadow pooled under his collarbones and under his cheekbones, impossibly making him more gorgeous.

Kylo sat opposite him, picking up the holographic menu and adjusted the sleeves of his uniform. Within moments a waitress arrived, a poised Devorian with unevenly colored red skin and sharp teeth. Kylo ordered a glass Nubian Claret in deference to his grandmother; the poet ordered a bottle of bubbly champagne. Kylo hoped dearly he could handle his alcohol—the prospect of hauling a drunk poet back to their rooms, not to mention explaining it to the engineer, wasn’t a pleasant one.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this,” Kylo commented. The comment brought up unwelcome thoughts, thoughts of the summer Ben Solo had saved all his wages and, wracked with nerves, asked the crackshot pilot of the New Republic out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant planetside. The pilot had accepted, and Ben had experienced the most profound relief of his entire short life, then elation, then utter disbelief. The pilot had to confirm twice.

“I’ve never been in a place like this,” the poet replied, and Kylo blinked away visions of tawny skin and curly black hair, warm brown eyes and bright laughter. “It’s wasteful. But beautiful.”

Kylo agreed.

The Devorian returned with their drinks. Kylo took a too-heavy sip of his, to the poet’s amusement. The poet poured himself a healthy glass, lifting the fluted crystal glass in a mock toast. “To the Order.”

“To the Order,” Kylo echoed, refusing to think of where the pilot was now. Dead, probably.

They had just ordered—some fancy nerf steak cut for Kylo and a classic Coruscanti dish for the poet—when the poet leaned over suddenly, pinching at his nose. Blood ran down his slim fingers, dripping off his hand and falling into his champagne glass with a soft _plip._ Kylo stared, entranced, as the droplet unfurled slowly, sinking to the bottom.

“Excuse me,” the poet said apologetically, rising and pressing his napkin to his nose to stem the bleeding. “I’ll be back in a moment, I’ve got to find a bathroom—“

“No!” Kylo exclaimed suddenly, snapping out of the trance of déjà vu, seizing the poet’s wrist and pulling him back. The poet eyed him with confused surprise. “You can’t—it’s dangerous—someone’s going to die—“

“Die?” the poet repeated, confusion plain on his pretty face. “I’m just going to the bathroom, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Before Kylo could protest, he slipped out of his grip and headed off towards a minimally lit sign that indicated the way to a washroom, napkin still pressed to his nose.

Kylo swallowed hard, watching his dark form disappear into the milling crowd, then turned his attention back to the champagne glass. On closer inspection, it was identically cut to what he remembered from his vision, the same slim, fluting design, the seductive shape, the vague bubbling champagne. The drop of the poet’s blood had settled, greatly diffused, at the bottom of the glass.

Something had been set into motion. Or already was in motion. Either way, something was happening, something dangerous. His Master would not approve—the meteor shower had prevented him from discussing his vision with Snoke. If whatever was happening interefered with the Supreme Leader’s plans, he would not be pleased.

Kylo thought back to the only instruction Snoke had given. _You both will attend to ensure the event proceeds to our plans._ Not very specific. Had Snoke had the same vision, or could it be that Kylo knew something that his Master yet did not? Dizzy with worry, Kylo felt around for Snoke’s presence hanging at the back of his mind, but found it curiously empty.

A few minutes later, the poet had not yet returned. Worry shot through Kylo, followed immediately by insecurity—had he been hurt, or had he been bored and returned to the rooms? A few moments more passed and the Devorian came with their meals, placing the poet’s ornate dish at an empty chair. A few more minutes of fidgeting and trying not to overreact later, Kylo was ready to go after him, find the engineer and sniper if necessary. He was stretching out his senses to seek the poet out when his search was abruptly cut off.

“Sorry about that,” the poet said with a sheepish smile, taking his seat again. “I got rather lost on the way there. It’s the dry air, it gives me the most terrible nosebleeds.”

Kylo nodded, chest flooded with relief. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with far greater nonchalance than he felt. He gestured vaguely to the poet’s meal. “The food arrived.”

“I can see that,” the poet said with a wry smile, making Kylo blush. “I do suggest we eat quickly, I imagine the others will be returning soon.”

Right. Kylo opened his napkin and removed his utensils with grim determination, sawing at his steak with more force than strictly necessary, spearing the meat with his fork and shoveling it into his mouth.

“What’s it like being a Knight of Ren?” the poet asked suddenly. “Going all over the galaxy, seeing all those worlds. Killing the Order’s enemies.”

Kylo thought a moment. “It depends,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “Sometimes it’s pretty boring. Hux is a kriffing stickler for paperwork—no offense,” he added quickly, and the poet laughed. “But other times it’s exhilarating. The thrill of open space. The rush of adrenaline. New species, new cultures. Most worlds are dirtballs, to be honest with you, but some are truly beautiful.”

“I want to see them some day,” the poet said. “After the war’s won. I want to see what we fought to win.”

Kylo gave him a rueful smile. “It may disappoint you.”

“Probably,” the poet agreed. “I’ll likely never make it, anyways. For better or worse.”

The next few moments passed in silence as they both ate, just slowly enough to pass for decorous. The poet paused every once in a while to take in the sheer _flavor_ of the food; Kylo recalled he would have eaten mostly rehydrated protein packs aboard the _Finalizer._ The food here must have been almost unpalatable for someone with such a limited diet.

When they were finished, Kylo tapped his access card on the glowing payment chip in the table. It flashed red, then displayed a message that all meals were complimentary.

Kylo couldn’t argue with that. In the back of his mind, Han Solo’s voice demanded he immediately sit down and enjoy a few more plates of free food, to “get it while you can.” Han and Leia had once completed a diner’s ‘eat it all and it’s free’ challenges to the point of being sick just for free food.

“Let’s go,” Kylo said, taking the poet’s arm, then turned his back on the ghosts still seated and headed back for the rooms.

 

 

The engineer and sniper were absent when he and the poet arrived, prompting a relieved sigh from both. The poet flopped back onto the conjoined bed, an expression of simple bliss on his face, his eyes shut. Kylo ducked into another room to change out of his horribly constricting uniform into more comfortable exercise clothes, a black t-shirt and sweatpants that he hadn’t even realized he owned. Then he returned to the main room and dropped onto the mattress beside the poet, laying an arm over the clone’s slim chest and pulling him in close. The poet gave a contented sigh and snuggled sleepily against him, nestling his head in the crook of Kylo’s shoulder.

“We’re going to have to eat again when they return,” the poet said suddenly, his voice a bit muffled by Kylo’s arm.

Kylo groaned, a heartfelt groan. “I’m so full.”

“So am I,” the poet agreed with a deep sigh. “Just say the traveling wore you out and you’re too tired to be hungry.”

Kylo nodded lazily, feeling all his energy seeping out of his body with the comfortable warmth and softness of the bed and the sweet smell of the poet’s hair. Nothing about this place was like the harsh light and lines, the drab greys of the _Finalizer_. It was painful and wonderful all at once.

Some moments later, whether an hour or a couple of minutes Kylo couldn’t be sure, the door opened and the engineer and the sniper piled through, each holding a few bags. They made straight for the couch, dropping the pleasant-smelling food on the table.

“You would not _believe_ the lines,” the engineer groused, dropping back onto the couch and idly taking the sniper’s hand as he sat down next to him. “Apparently the kitchens are working around the clock. It’s incredible. I can’t even imagine the infrastructure that goes into designing the schedule of this boat, let alone her superstructure. Imagine the weight—it’s staggering—she probably has the sublight capability of a _Resurgent-class_ for sure—“

The sniper cut him off by reaching across him for the remote, turning on the holoprojector and switching idly through the channels. An eyeblaster had appeared in his hand—he was clearly the most alcohol-dependent, or at least alcohol-loving, amongst the brothers.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” the engineer asked after a few minutes of Kylo and the poet not moving.

“Maybe later,” Kylo replied.

The engineer gave a labored sigh. “I’m so exhausted. Who wants to sleep now? We don’t even have to be up for the alpha shift—“

“ _I_ do,” the poet said. “Unlike _some_ of us, I actually want to get work done. Didn’t you say you were going to finish the core substructure on this trip?”

“Substructure shrubsmuckster,” the engineer said with a wave of his hand. He produced a half-empty bottle of wine from the general’s greatcoat and took a great gulp. “The night is young. I’m sure I’ll accomplish _great_ things. Once I get up from this couch,” he added with a frown.

The poet rolled his eyes.

A few hours later, the poet and the engineer were fast asleep. The sniper had delivered the rather drunk engineer to the bed and tucked him in, a bit roughly, then returned to the holoprojector, expression unchanging as always as his sharp eyes flicked over the image.

Kylo himself was just drifting off when a soft buzzer rang. Kylo started awake, sitting up quickly, making the engineer stir and groan.  
  
He and the sniper exchanged a quick look. Kylo leapt out of bed, landing lightly on the soft, sumptuous carpet, then padded quickly to the door and palmed it open.

A dark-skinned serious-looking woman stood in the doorway, her hair pulled back into a severe hairstyle, wearing a dark blue uniform that did not belong on the vessel. She wore heavy boots and a utilitarian belt that belonged more on a soldier than a civilian.

“Lord Ren?” she asked.

“That’s me,” Kylo replied shortly.

“I’m PC Lana Jaymes of Abraxis MPD and this is my partner Ros Abdul,” the woman said, gesturing to a shifty, similarly-uniformed Quarren male beside her. “I apologize to bother you at this time of night, but I’m afraid to report a guest aboard this vessel has died. Investigation will confirm whether the circumstances were suspicious. All guests are required to remain until the investigation is concluded. Since you’re military, I figured you should know. We may need your help to maintain order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaanyway I hope that wasn't too far outta left field, I imagine it isn't what most of you were quite expecting but I hope in a good way? I know what I'm doing I swear ?? let me know what you think
> 
> (but ye don't u worry your sinful hearts there'll be plenty of smut going forwards lololololololol at this point I couldn't stop if I tried)
> 
> anyway thank y'all for all the support and love, y'all are really the reason I write so BLESS YOU <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter might seem legit, but it’s really just an excuse for ice cream smut. all hail our lego overlords
> 
> also, [a lovely human](letsrevitup.tumblr.com) made cover art based on last chapter [here](http://firstordershitposting.tumblr.com/post/146658024784/i-loved-the-new-chapter-of-quadrumvirate-so-i)! and by popular demand (aka one lovely commenter) I made a sketch of each of the Huxes (minus the general), which you can see [here](http://firstordershitposting.tumblr.com/post/146713076264/an-engineer-a-sniper-and-a-poet-walk-into-a-bar).

Once the door was safely shut behind him so Jaymes and Abdul couldn’t see the sleeping Huxes, Kylo asked, “Who was killed?”

Jaymes grimaced, glancing around to check for stray passengers. “Keep your voice down, we don’t want a panic. No positive ident yet, but the card on him belongs to a Major Corsair Rahm. Ex-Imp, if Abdul’s memory serves. Mean anything to you?”

“Rahm?” The name tickled his sleep-deprived memory. Confusion followed swiftly on its heels. “I saw him just a few hours ago. He’s dead?”

“Cooling when we arrived,” Jaymes said grimly. “Body was found in a leaky airlock, so no definitive timescale for the murder. Rigor mortis was just setting in.”  
  
"How did he die?” Kylo asked. “Was he stabbed in the neck?”

The Quarren, Abdul, frowned. “Throat appears to have been slit. How did you...?”

Kylo felt embarrassed at the outburst. Would they now think _he_ did it? “I didn’t—I mean—“

“Darth Vader occult stuff, we get it,” Jaymes said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and Kylo took a moment to preen at the Vader comparison. “Though it would’ve been great if this prescience stuff could lead us to the killer or stop them before they get away with it,” she added.

“That’s not how it works,” Kylo said. “It’s all cryptic. Comes to me in pieces. Pretty useless for stuff on a scale of longer than a few minutes, to be honest.”

Abdul’s eyes blinked rapidly, the Quarren equivalent of an eyeroll. “Don’t tell me, you also do tea leaf readings. Oh, and there’s a loved one who wants me to know I’m loved.”

Kylo bristled, fist clenching reflexively; it took all his control not to close around his throat in the Force. “If you want a practical demonstration—“

“We need no demonstration,” Jaymes said quickly, tossing her partner a rapid look. “In fact, if we’re being honest with you, we may need your help. High profile murders are best to be wrapped up quickly. Especially since we’ll have to keep all the guests aboard here until the case is sorted.”

“What?” Kylo said, eyes going wide. “No—I can’t _stay_ here, we’re due to leave tomorrow—“

“Well, not anymore,” Abdul told him, his tone caustic. “No one leaves this ship until we say otherwise. Even Sienar and his fortune can’t say boo to that.”

Kylo felt his teeth grind. He couldn’t stay here any longer than strictly necessary. “Fine. I’ll help you. But why are you trusting me? For all you know, I’m in on it.”

“It’s a risk,” Jaymes conceded. “But people are afraid of you, and fear makes people slip up faster than anything else. Also, if the recent HoloNet footage is anything to go by, something as subtle as a slit throat really isn’t your style.”

“Also you’re desperate,” Kylo added smugly, watching Abdul’s expression cloud with satisfaction.

“You’d be desperate too if you had all of the MPD ramming up your ass to solve a high-profile killing on the most profitable boat in town,” Jaymes replied flatly. She checked her commlink, then glanced back up. “We’ll call on you as we learn more or need you. Is that acceptable?”

Kylo nodded, committing the comlink frequency they gave him to memory. “Good night,” he said, turning around to open the door, a clear dismissal.

“Good night, Lord Ren,” Jaymes replied, a wry smile on her face.

 

 

 

 

“Terrible,” Nieguen Sienar said, shaking his head. “Terrible.”

Kylo and the engineer were sitting in his office, a beautiful yet comparatively modest space full of dark-stained wood and old-fashioned books, a graceful yet obviously outrageously expensive anachronism.

Kylo noticed with not a small degree of interest that Sienar himself looked terrible, his clothes slightly rumpled, dark circles under his eyes. Likely due to spending the entire night reassuring panicky guests and angry police—not to mention worrying about the toll the investigation might take on his _aesthetic._

“Terrible,” the engineer agreed cheerfully. He, for one, seemed to have not nearly the same reaction as others, finding the whole thing entertainingly maudlin. The poet, for his part, had practically began to bounce in place at the revelation, happily exclaiming that “we have a murder!”

Kylo assumed it was due to the fact all artistic types were slightly insane.

“Have the police said anything to you?” the engineer asked, dangling a priceless teacup off one gloved finger, looking bored.

Sienar shook his head. “Other than the name of the victim and how he was found, nothing.” He shook his head. “I’ve been dealing with anger and panic all night long. The guests need reassurance, and PC Plod isn’t going to do the trick.”

The engineer fixed him with a decidedly Hux-like stare. “Are you saying you need my help, Nieguen?”

Sienar raised a well-groomed eyebrow, undeniably regal “I don’t _need_ your help. But it would be...appreciated. To let the guests know the calvary are here, so to speak.”

The engineer nodded with exaggerated nonchalance, pretending to admire his nails under his gloves. “So when you take over BlasTech—“

“— _if_ we merge with BlasTech,” Sienar corrected.

“— _when_ you take over BlasTech,” the engineer continued, “you’ll accept the Order’s contract bid, and ours _only,_ ” he finished, his gaze still affixed to his gloves. One of his booted legs was hitched over the other; he couldn’t have looked any more like the general.

Sienar sighed. “You know I can’t make a decision like that, or I’d have done it already. The board has a mind of its own. Office politics. You of all people should understand.”

“Well,” the engineer said mildly, “things may change.”

“Things may change,” Sienar repeated, a bit incredulous.

The engineer met his gaze easily for a few moments, then winked, springing out of his chair and hooking his arm in Kylo’s, dragging him to his feet. “Come along, Ren,” he said. “We’ve got a public to assuage.”

Sienar watched them go, eyes a bit wide. Kylo offered him an apologetic grimace—the fucking idiot was acting like a fucking _clown,_ the general would never act like this _—_

As soon as they were out of earshot of Sienar’s office the engineer lurched towards a hall trash can, leaning over it heavily and gripping the rim. “I’m so fucking hung over,” he groaned. “How much did I even drink?”

Kylo thought a moment. “Two bottles of Corellian wine.” He took a cautionary step back; the engineer was looking very pale, his hair hanging loose around his head. “I wouldn’t get anything on the uniform. I can’t imagine he likes to dry clean.”

The engineer gave him a baleful glare. “Thanks, Lord Ren. I feel much better already.”

Kylo shrugged. “How are we going to convince people everyone’s safe? We don’t have any stormtroopers. I don’t even have my lightsaber.” Much to his consternation.

“You have your mask, don’t you?” the engineer said, a bit weakly.

Kylo nodded.

“That’s all you need,” he replied. “It’s a symbol of strength. I’ll announce that the Order will ensure order—ha—and you’ll lurk in the background, preferably flexing or something like that, I dunno. I’m not the propaganda whiz. I can do smoke machines, though. You know, for atmosphere—“

“ _Smoke_ machines?” Kylo repeated incredulously.

“Or not,” the engineer conceded. He waved a hand, then leaned further into the trash can. Kylo considered grabbing the back of his greatcoat to keep him from falling in. Voice a bit muffled, the engineer added, “I’ll leave it to little brother. He’ll know what to do.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Smoke machines?” the poet repeated, looking scandalized. “ _Smoke machines_?”

“I wasn’t serious,” the engineer groused, folding his arms over his chest. The sniper pressed a glass and a bubbling tablet into his hand and took off the general’s hat, putting it neatly aside. Kylo threw him a wholly unnecessary _I-told-you-so_ look; the engineer made a face back.

The poet rolled his eyes, pushing his thick fringe out of his face. “You need to present a united front, for starters,” he said, rolling over on the mattress and presenting Kylo a fine view of his ass beneath his tiny shorts, propping himself up on his elbows and powering on his datapad.

“Lord Ren should get a few troops from the local garrison—they won’t miss a squad or two, not when on the orders of the General—and visibly arrive with them, preferably in mask and robes, if you have them. You—“ he indicated the engineer, “will meet him in the hangar, or whatever visible rendezvous we choose. The troops should be put on the most visible patrol route. Make sure their gear is in tip-top shape,” he added. “In fact, if the garrison has any show troops, use those. They’re trained in what to do.”

Kylo was silent a moment, considering. “That would work,” he said. Beside him, the engineer downed the fizzy tablet glass in one long gulp and sighed.  
  
The poet smiled brightly. “I know it would. Lunch?”

 

 

 

 

 

“You can’t just eat ice cream for lunch,” Kylo protested, watching the poet lick at a large sugar cone piled high with large pink scoops in mild distress.

The poet gave him a mischievous look. Melted ice cream had dribbled all down his face and the front of his shirt. He very purposefully slipped one shoulder free of his thin white tank top, watching in smug satisfaction as Kylo’s eyes followed the pink rivulets down his chest to the pink of his exposed nipple. “Why not?” he asked, full of innocence.

Kylo ground his teeth and attempted to collect himself. “It’s just sugar,” he said. “There’s no nutrition.” He felt vaguely ridiculous having this conversation, but he could only imagine the general’s fury if he let one of his precious clones die of malnutrition.

“Well, I _like_ sugar,” the poet said, then gave a wicked grin. Leaning forwards, he pushed the ice cream into Kylo’s face. Kylo jerked back but the poet pounced, climbing on top of him and smearing cream all over his face, in his hair. Kylo pushed him off but he clung to Kylo’s waist with his legs, laughing brightly. Kylo tried to open his eyes but felt sticky cream over his eyes and reached to rub at them—

A warm tongue dragged over his cheek, then another over his chin, a third at his jaw. He felt hot breath and warm hands all over his chest, the scrape of the sniper’s trim beard on his neck, the engineer’s teeth at his lips. A thigh jutted between Kylo’s legs; he snapped his hips against it as the poet ground against the top of his leg, the other two at the sides of his hips. They peeled off his uniform, ran their fingers through his hair, stroked his skin, murmured unintelligible things and panted in his ear. The press of their bodies hot, sticky around him was almost uncomfortably close.

Kylo groaned, tilting his head back to let one of them suck at the skin of his neck. A raspy tongue played at one of his nipples, a third fumbled with his pants and freed his cock, gripping it firmly and jerking him off with brisk efficiency. A firey orgasm built quickly at the base of his spine; he gasped and groaned appreciatively, reveling in their encouraging caresses. Arms wrapped around him as he came, lowering him gently into the mattress, pressing hot kisses to his forehead, his stomach, his chest.

Kylo opened his eyes and his gut coiled tightly. The poet was perched on his hips, ass pressed into his now soft cock, naked except for those damned little black shorts. His face and hair was splattered with Kylo’s come; he was very pink and practically glowed with arousal.

The other two gripped him firmly and began to lick the come slowly off the poet’s face. The poet moaned and squirmed, tilting his hips forward to rub his cock into Kylo’s hip. Kylo watched from a haze of bliss, well aware that the spectacle was mostly for his own benefit. When they’d licked him mostly clean, the engineer and sniper took their brother by the shoulders and bent him over Kylo’s chest, the poet’s slim legs straddling Kylo’s hips, his chest pressed into Kylo’s stomach.

Behind him the engineer removed his gloves, one after the other, squeezing a generous portion of lube into his hand, then pushed a slick finger into the poet’s ass, patiently working him open as the poet gasped and rubbed into Kylo’s stomach. When the engineer could comfortably fit a few fingers, he stood up on his knees, freed his already-hard cock, palming it down a few times with lube, pushing into the poet and patiently thrusting against him until he’d sank in as far as he would go.

The poet’s clear lashes fluttered, his almost red lips spilling over with saliva. His hazy gaze met Kylo’s eyes as the engineer began to fuck him, gasping and moaning at every thrust. Kylo grabbed a handful of his light hair—damp with melted cream and sweat and come, curling at the top—and held out two of his fingers near the poet’s wet mouth.

The poet grabbed them and sucked greedily, his tongue flicking over the pads of Kylo’s fingers. Kylo could see him clenching around the engineer’s cock, squirming and panting beneath him, his hair falling messily over his eyes, taking Kylo’s fingers in up to the knuckle.

The poet bit into the bone of his fingers as the engineer pulled out and came. Kylo winced, watching in rapt fascination as the engineer’s come spilled down the poet’s arched back.

The sniper knelt behind him and the poet’s breathing quickened slightly. He let go of Kylo’s now bruised fingers, unresisting as the sniper took his arms and folded them behind his back, punishing his shoulders at a harsh angle. The poet caught Kylo’s eye, gazing at him with brandingly intense eyes as the sniper applied more lube to his fingers. Kylo swallowed hard and watched as the sniper fucked him with his fingers and murmured quiet praise into his ear until the poet was relaxed enough to take something much larger than a human cock.

For a wild second Kylo thought the sniper was going to fuck him with the ice cream cone, then remembered with vague disappointment that it was now soggy and trampled, squishy and wet against Kylo’s own bare back. He could see the poet shaking with the combined strain of exertion and arousal; when the sniper finally pushed into him the poet gasped and arched and thrust clumsily back into him, making noises straight out of the holoporn of Kylo’s youth.

The sniper grabbed the back of the poet’s head in his still-gloved hand and pushed his chin into Kylo’s stomach. Kylo clenched his abdomen reflexively; the poet whimpered and wriggled, hypersensitive, as the sniper pulled out and thrust back in long, almost lazy strokes, strong ungloved hand digging into the poet’s pale forearms hard enough to bruise.

The sniper moved to pull out completely—

“Inside,” the poet gasped, then cried out when the sniper came, hot come leaking down the poet’s thighs and pooling on Kylo’s skin. The sniper pulled out and the poet collapsed, worn out and trembling from exertion, his erection straining against Kylo’s hip.

The sniper held the poet’s arms as the poet thrust weakly against Kylo’s hip, whimpering and shaking. Sticky with pink cream and sweat and three other people’s come, his skin made thin squelching noises against Kylo’s own as he moved. Finally he came, spilling out onto the sheets with a hoarse, desperate cry.

Immediately the sniper let his arms go and scooped him up, picking him up and cradling him in his arms, carrying him into the bath, the engineer in tow. Curious, Kylo pushed himself off the bed, trying to navigate the disaster zone of melted ice cream and bodily fluids and failing, following them to the bath.

The engineer had already filled the large tub up with luxuriously hot water and was sniffing in wonderment at all the different soaps and their smells, then made the unfortunate decision of pouring healthy measures of each into the water, creating a massive foam of bubbles and an overpowering flowery smell.

The sniper deposited the poet carefully into the bath, shucking off his clothes and climbing in after him, the engineer following suit. Together they began to wash him, the engineer rubbing soapy water over the poet’s back—littered, Kylo now noticed, with old bruises and scratches—and the sniper rubbed carefully at his face with a wet washcloth. The poet’s face looked splotchy and pink, as if he’d been crying; his eyes were downcast and his narrow shoulders still trembled slightly.

“You too,” the engineer said to Kylo, and he obediently shelled off his sweatpants and shirt and stepped into the hot water, the engineer shimmying aside so he could sit down. Kylo felt awkward, out of place; he suddenly didn’t feel sure who he could touch or where.

The engineer leaned the poet back, dipping his messy hair into the water, then poured more soap into his palm and rubbed it in, massaging the poet’s scalp, working the soap into the poet’s hair. He raised his eyebrows pointedly.

Unsure and embarrassed, Kylo took one of the poet’s slim ankles and rubbed at his calf with the other, working the tense muscles into relaxation as he’d seen Han do for Leia. The poet gave a quiet sigh and the engineer nodded his approval, running his fingers through the poet’s soapy hair, then tilting him back to wash out the soap. Sopping wet and shivering, he looked very vulnerable. The engineer pressed a kiss to his forehead, wrapping his arms around him protectively.

Kylo started on the other leg, then jerked back as water splashed by him.

The poet laughed, then flicked more water at him with his toes. Kylo grabbed at his ankle, only to receive a full face of water from the engineer. Sopping wet and grimacing at the taste of bubbles in his mouth, Kylo glared at the three of them. Even the sniper looked rather smug.

The poet giggled. “You look smaller when your hair’s wet.”

The engineer stroked the poet’s hair lovingly, smiling approvingly. To Kylo, he said, “I think he likes tormenting you.”

“I’d noticed,” Kylo muttered, but did not retaliate.

The poet wriggled further upright in the engineer’s arms, eyes bright, pushing one narrow foot Kylo’s direction, waggling his toes. “Please?”

“Please what?” Kylo asked. The engineer sniggered; Kylo flushed immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

“ _Please_?” the poet begged, lip pushed out in a pleading pout. His eyelashes fluttered slightly, causing a responding flutter in Kylo’s stomach. “They’re all squeaky clean—“

Kylo looked from the engineer’s amused grin to the sniper’s impassive deadpan. He could feel the heat on his face spreading down to his chest, the tingling of his lips. He _wanted_ to. That in itself was more shameful than the act itself.

Fixing his eyes on the poet’s knee, he took the poet’s ankle and brought his foot to his lips, opening his mouth and suckling lightly at the poet’s toes. The poet gave a grateful sigh, sinking lower into the water. As Kylo worked at his foot, pushing at the arch with his thumbs and running tongue over the bottom of his toes, the engineer stroked teasingly at the poet’s nipples, making him arch and moan. Kylo could feel his own spit spilling down his chin as he sucked.

The poet withdrew his foot and Kylo whined, drawing a smirk from the engineer. Kylo blushed furiously, wiping at his chin, half wishing he could disappear and half hoping the thick layer of bubbles hid his twitching cock. Arousal shot through him as something bumped against him and a tiny whimper escaped his lips.

The poet gave a pretty giggle at his duress, then pushed at him with his toes, kneading his soft cock with sadistic patience—

Kylo’s comlink twittered and he crawled out of the bath to answer it, cringing and relieved all at once. “Ren here.”

“ _This is PC Jaymes,”_ Jaymes’ voice said, and Kylo felt himself flush all over again, dripping wet and half hard and naked. “ _Can you meet us on the main deck at 1600?”_

Kylo glanced at the chrono the engineer had been fiddling with the night before. The glowing numbers were now upside down, but appeared to be accurate. It was 0340 or so—give twenty minutes to dry off and dress, not to mention extricate himself from the brothers— “That’ll work.”

“ _Good. Meet us at the caf shop. Try not to attract to much attention.”_

Kylo glowered. “Got it.”

Jaymes cut off the line. Kylo grabbed his clothes and a thick, fluffy white towel from the bath, doing his best to ignore the brothers’ very obvious appreciation for his naked physique.

“Where are you going?” the engineer asked.

“The MPD want my help with their investigation,” Kylo muttered, then left before any of them could ask anything further. Barricading himself behind one of the doors, he toweled himself off and struggled into his standard-issue sweats and t-shirt. He opened the door, swiped a pair of socks off the floor and hobbled around as he put them on, then jammed his feet into his boots and grabbed his comlink off the bed.

“If you don’t return in a few hours, we’ll send out a search party,” the engineer called after him, sounding bored. Kylo opened the door and waved it shut behind him, then headed for the main deck.

 

 

 

 

He found Jaymes and Abdul sitting at a small table near a floor-to-ceiling transparisteel viewport, each cradling a large mug of caf in their hands. Jaymes waved at him as he came over, her wry smile on her face.

“You’re looking very domestic,” she said, eyeing him with a mixture of amusement and appreciation. “I wouldn’t have imagined the fist of the First Order did sweatpants.” An impish gleam came to her eyes. “And getting up close and personal with the General, I see.”

Kylo felt his face go very very hot, his heart nearly stopping in his chest. “What?”

She gestured to his neck. “Bruises?”

 _Kriff._ Had those already shown? He’d completely forgotten about them. His blush deepened. “Weren’t you supposed to be talking about the murder?”

Jaymes laughed. “Relax. Your secret’s safe with us. Well, safer than it would be with those vultures,” she added, glancing at the nearby guests with mild distaste. “Anyway. While you were making sweet sweet love to your commanding officer, we were checking alibis. Nieguen Sienar says the General and his bodyguard were with him the whole evening until 2300, when he says they returned to your rooms. Can you confirm?”

“He’s not my commanding officer.” Kylo said.

Abdul cast him a strange look. “His alibi...?”

“He returned around 2300, yes,” Kylo confirmed. “I didn’t check the chrono, but that sounds about right.”

“Rahm was found around at 2300, so it’s unlikely they would have had time to off him and dispose of the body,” Jaymes said. “Which, out of your party, leaves you and...” she checked her notes, “Alden Verjel. He’s a diplomat?”

Kylo fought to remember the poet’s cover story. “Diplomat and advisor,” he said. “He was with me or in the room with me all evening. We did go out to get food.”

“Were you separated for any period of time?”

“No,” Kylo said, the lie coming to him automatically. “Like I said, he was with me the entire time.”

Jaymes nodded, evidently satisfied. “Well, that leaves four-hundred people without a continuous alibi for the estimated timeframe of the murder. Only three have no alibi at all, one of whom had nasty food poisoning from planetside and was bedridden all night. We’re trying to confirm the accounts given with security footage, but it’s going to take time.”

“Let me talk to them,” Kylo said. “I can sense who’s lying.”

Jaymes raised an eyebrow. “All seven-hundred passengers? And over a thousand staff and wait staff? That’s an awfully large commitment.”

Kylo had to admit she had a point. “Fine. Whoever you have doubts about. The food-poisoning guest. Dodgy chefs. Sienar himself, I don’t care.”

“Well, funny you mention that,” Jaymes said, sneaking a bite of her partner’s pastry. “Since Abdul is a cynical asshole—don’t give me that look, you know it’s true—we checked out Sienar’s alibi first. The camera in that area has been down for a while—we can see him and the general enter the area, and them leave, but nothing in between.”

“They said they were waiting for food,” Kylo said. “Does that add up?”

“They do exit carrying boxes of food,” Abdul admitted, stealing his pastry back. “And other guests confirm they were there, though no one’s particularly reliable about times. But the bodyguard could have slipped out unnoticed and none of the passengers would have blinked an eye.”

“He wouldn’t leave the general,” Kylo said. The sniper seemed nothing if not fiercely protective; Kylo doubted he’d let the engineer out of his eyesight for a second.

“Not even on orders?” Abdul countered. “Your general could have ordered him to kill Rahm. He _was_ ex-Imp, we checked. Some kind of Navy bigwig, once. Commended by the Grand Moff himself. Maybe he was trying to edge in on First Order operations—“

Jaymes shot him a warning look. “And Hux could secretly be the reincarnation of the Emperor and just killed Rahm with his mind. Give it a rest, Ros.”

Kylo snorted out loud at the idea of Hux being in any way related to Darth Sidious. “It’s not his style,” he said. “The general prefers do everything on an impersonal scale. If he really had it out for Rahm in a political way, he would have found an excuse to pound his entire planet into dust.”

Abdul knotted his arms over his chest, but said nothing.

“I think we can pretty much rule out Sienar and the General,” Jaymes said, taking a huge gulp of her caf. “Too much to lose, too easily recognizable. Not to mention Lord Ren and Verjel. I think we should focus on Rahm himself. What would have made someone want to kill him? Ros says he was an Imp bigwig. Did someone carry a grudge? Did he know something he shouldn’t? Did he have debts? Ex-spouses? Underworld connections?”

Kylo shrugged. “I can’t tell you anything about that. I just met him yesterday.”

“Can you get his file?” Jaymes asked. “Every time I called, the local garrison stonewalled me to Corellian hell. Even Sienar’s staff couldn’t win them over, and Sienar’s word pretty much goes around here.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kylo promised. He could ask when he ordered a squadron from the garrison. Unless Rahm’s file wasn’t in the recovered sectors of the old Imperial databanks, he saw no reason they could deny him. “They’re probably just being stubborn for the hell of it.”

Jaymes shot him a crooked smile. “Probably.” She put her datapad to sleep, finishing the dregs of her caf. “Well, that’s all we’ve got. Unless you’ve got any questions, we should probably get cracking.”

“I do,” Kylo said. “Is your post-mortem done? Do you have any idea what the murder weapon would be?”

“Toxicology and preliminary reports are in,” Jaymes confirmed. “No poison other than a fairly high percentage of alcohol—tissue samples suggest he was a regular user. Cause of death was a bit surprising, though. Rahm _was_ stabbed in the neck, a pretty messy job too, because the killer wiggled the blade around a good bit before they managed to sever the jugular. Then they slit the throat post-mortem. The droids are running analysis on the weapon now, so nothing yet.”

“So not a professional job?” Kylo guessed.

“Probably not, unless the messiness is a double-blind,” Abdul said with a frown. “Underestimating the difficulty of cutting the jugular _is_ a common amateur mistake.”

Kylo nodded. He had been quite sure the hand with a blade had stabbed, not cut, in his vision. “So I was right. What I saw.”

Abdul clicked his teeth irritably, a Quarren sigh, looking put upon. “It doesn’t mean anything—“

“I may not read tea leaves, but I do know a few things,” Kylo said, feeling very smug, then pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll be with the General and the other guests this evening, but keep me updated. I’ll let you know if I discover anything.”

And with that he turned on his heel and headed off, feeling Abdul’s glare on his back.

 

 

 

 

Kylo stepped through the door, glancing around.

The three clones were asleep on the newly-made bed, clothed and dry and huddled together and snuggling against each other. Kylo attempted to be quiet, but the door made a tell-tale _woosh_ as it swished shut. The sniper’s eyes flicked open, then the poet’s blinked groggily, then widened.

Crawling off the bed, the poet padded over and threw his arms around Kylo’s middle and hugged him tightly, refusing to let go.

“I missed you,” he said into Kylo’s bicep. He smelled overwhelmingly sweet, his pale skin smooth and almost glowing with health, his hair soft and inviting. His body was warm and radiated heat.

Kylo attempted to return the hug, failing rather miserably, achieving only an awkward embrace. “I wasn’t gone that long,” he said, patting his hair.

“It felt like forever,” the poet told him, pushing the grumbling engineer over and pulling Kylo onto the newly-made bed, soft and fresh and smelling of clean linen. He arranged Kylo’s arm around his waist, pressing his narrow shoulders against Kylo’s chest. At such close range, Kylo could not help but notice he was wearing a thin, white silk slip that clung to his body and barely reached his thighs, his shoulders almost entirely bare.

“Do you like it?” the poet asked, noticing his attention, fiddling with the thin shoulder strap as if to pull it off.

Kylo hummed his assent, feeling his waist. His body was soft and plush under his touch. “It’s very nice.”

The poet dipped in close and whispered, almost conspiratorially, “Wait ‘till you see what I’ve got on _under_ it.”

The engineer’s sharp elbow drove painfully into Kylo’s ribs. Kylo hissed, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain. “If you’re going to make noise, do it on the fucking floor,” the engineer grumbled. “I’m trying to _sleep_.”

Kylo shrugged, climbing swiftly off the bed, scooping the poet up and lifting him as if he weighed nothing, carrying him to another room and closing the door. The poet laughed and clung to his neck, letting him set him down on the new bed and lie down next to him, then took his hand and guided it to the lacy hem of his slip dress. Pushing it up Kylo discovered pale pink lingerie; further inspection revealed a fat plug in his ass.

“I’ve been shopping,” the poet confessed excitedly. “I’ve never shopped before, but I’m very good at it.”

Kylo laughed. “Are you?”

The poet nodded. Kylo kissed him, softly, marveling at the softness of his lips, breathing in the sweet smell of soap, hand sliding up his back.

“Do you like me?” Kylo asked when they’d parted. “You can be honest.”

“I do,” the poet said, his face serious.

“Why?”

“Because you’re new,” he said. “Before you, I’d never truly seen a face that wasn’t mine. Not up close. Never touched it. But you’re so new. Different. Even from everyone else.” His thin fingers ghosted over Kylo’s lips, down the bridge of his nose. “Before you, I’d never been touched by anyone who wasn’t one of us.”

His eyes met Kylo’s, pale and soft and suddenly sad. “It’s so lonely,” he whispered. “They love me, and I love them. And it’s almost always enough. But sometimes...I feel so alone.”

Kylo knew the feeling.

 

 

 

“Are you done in there?” the engineer demanded. “I promised Nieguen we’d be there _ten minutes ago_ and you’re in there doing your beauty routine—“

“I _was_ ready ten minutes ago!” Kylo snapped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets in a vain search for his comlink, to no avail. His hand snagged a piece of paper. With a frustrated huff, he pulled it out. It was folded neatly. Mentally daring the engineer to yell at him again, he fumbled with the slip of paper, trying to open it.

“Then what the hell are you waiting for? Let’s go,” the engineer shouted, then gave the door a sharp rap. “ _Ren—“_

“One second,” he replied, slipping the paper open. In a scratchy, blotted hand, it read,

_Don’t trust them._

Kylo froze, a frown deepening on his face. Don’t trust _whom_? Who had left the message—one of the clones, or someone else? For a second his mind dashed to the poet—could he be warning him against his brothers? Or—

“What’s that?” the poet’s voice asked curiously, attempting to peer over Kylo’s shoulder.

“Nothing,” Kylo said quickly, stuffing it back into his pocket, then giving the poet’s tiny dress a skeptical look. “Is that what you’re going to wear?”

“ _Ren—“_ the engineer began in thundering tones. Kylo growled in frustration, then marched over to the door and wrenched it open.

“I’m _ready_ ,” he snarled. The engineer took a hasty step back, throwing up his hands as if in surrender.

“I’m not!” the poet called over his shoulder. The engineer rolled his eyes.

“Figures,” he muttered, then stole a gulp of the sniper’s Corellian Gimlet and sighed deeply. “Five minutes!” he yelled over Kylo’s shoulder. “Or else!”

The poet laughed, stripping out of his slip and stepping unhurriedly into his diplomat’s uniform. “Or what?”

“Another murder,” the engineer muttered, then added more loudly, “We’ll leave you behind, that’s what.”

Another ten minutes later, the poet emerged, looking very pleased with himself. The slim-fitting diplomat’s uniform, lined in crimson and without any rank designation, clung very tight to his figure and somehow managed to look a bit slutty. He’d even raked his hair into some semblance of order. “First person to take me out of this with their teeth gets sucked off,” he announced.

The engineer rolled his eyes, patently unimpressed. “Let’s go.”

 

 

 

“I hate everyone in this room,” Jaymes grumbled, surveying her finely adorned surroundings with distaste. She gulped down another glass of champagne. “Arrogant barves. If I have _one_ more person come up to me and express their unwanted opinion that the MPD is in shambles, I’ll crack this stupid glass over their head.”

“Is it?” Kylo asked.  
  
She glared, then snagged another glass from a passing waiter and shrugged. “The MPD is bantha shit. But that doesn’t mean I like people coming up and telling me that.”

Kylo nodded, taking a sip of Bribol juice. He rarely drank, and now hardly seemed the time to start. He noticed the engineer hadn’t taken more than a sip all evening, apparently taking his duties somewhat more seriously than it seemed. He was currently reassuring a spindly Chandra Fan not to worry, that Rahm’s killer would be apprehended soon.

The poet, for his part, was already acting a bit tipsy, brushing against Sienar’s arm and laughing politely at everything everyone around him said. Kylo noted with a savage stab of jealousy that Sienar already seemed to regard the poet fondly, maybe a bit too fondly. Being their father’s star pupil clearly afforded him high status in the Huxes’ minds.

Kylo hunched his shoulders and trying not to look at the poet accepting another glass of champagne from Sienar, laughing and touching his shoulder. And it wasn’t just the name—Sienar was handsome, too. Bright smile, chiseled features, perfectly shorn close-cropped hair, perfect skin and trim figure.

A quiet _pop_ sounded and Kylo looked down at his glass in mild surprise. A spidery crack had appeared down the side, running down from where his thumb pressed into the crystal.

Jaymes eyed him with amusement. “Relax, tiger,” she said. “It’s just a party.”

“ _You_ relax,” Kylo muttered, but forced his attention elsewhere, feeling the slip of paper in his pocket. _Don’t trust them._ He let his gaze float over the scene in front of him, the lighting and tinkling of glasses and low hum of conversation so like the night before, when Rahm had interrupted them, brushing inadvertently into him with a “ _Lord Ren”—_

Kylo blinked. Rahm _had_ bumped into him, almost too gently to be noticed. Had he put the note in Kylo’s pocket? If so, what did it mean? If it was Rahm, it couldn’t possibly be about the clones, since he wouldn’t have known there was more than just the general. About Sienar and his cronies, then? Were they planning some sort of double-cross Rahm had stumbled onto, and Rahm died trying to warn them? He wasn’t First Order, but it wasn’t a stretch to imagine his Imperial loyalty extended to the Order, the Empire’s ideological heir. _Them_ was so unspecific it was almost useless— _who_ should he not trust? And why had Rahm delivered the message so cryptically, and to _him_?

He hadn’t recognized the poet, so perhaps he didn’t trust ‘Verjel’ with sensitive information, and had intended to speak to Kylo further. Or maybe for some reason he’d assumed Verjel was in on it. The possibilities were endless.

Either way, he had to confirm the note was from Rahm at all. Perhaps he had just bumped into Kylo by accident, or not at all.

“Do you have a handwriting sample for Rahm?” Kylo asked.

Jaymes frowned. “We should, on his civilian file. Financial records, and all that. Why?”

Kylo glanced around to see if anyone was in immediate earshot, then said in an undertone, “I think he may have been trying to warn me about something. When he came to talk to me, that was less than an hour before he died. I found a note in my pocket from that evening, I think he may have put it there.”

Jaymes’ eyebrows raised expressively. “You’re serious? What does it say?”

Kylo shook his head. “Nothing helpful. It just says, ‘ _don’t trust them.’ ”_

“Who’s ‘them?’ And why shouldn’t you trust them? That’s hardly very specific,” Jaymes said with another frown. “Honestly, if people would just come out and say what they _mean_ for once, just _once,_ it’d make my job so much easier.”

Kylo shrugged. “I don’t even know for a fact it was him that gave it to me. It could have been from earlier in the evening. But I’ve got a feeling.”

“Oh good,” Jaymes grumbled, but Kylo could tell she had taken him seriously. “A _feeling._ ”

“It’s worth checking out,” he said reasonably. “If the handwriting matches, it’s a clue. Of some sort. We would know he was worried enough about something that he went to me. He did know who I was.”

Jaymes sighed. “So far, it’s our _only_ solid lead. Rahm’s civilian life has been astonishingly dull so far. Never married, lives in a secluded place on some posh New Rep world, doesn’t even have a kriffing pet. Finances all check out. As ex-Imps go, he’s boring as hell.”

Kylo frowned. “Then why was he invited to Sienar’s personal soirée?”

Jaymes’ dark eyes narrowed. “Good point,” she said. “What _could_ a boring ex-Imp have to offer Nieguen Sienar? He practically owns half the military industrial infrastructure. What could Rahm’s faded prestige possibly do for him?”

Kylo gave another one-shouldered shrug. “I suggest we ask.”

“Are you crazy?” Jaymes demanded. “In front of all these people? It was hard enough getting an interview with him to ask where he was during the murder—let alone practically accusing him of—“

“We’re just asking him a question,” Kylo replied easily. “What’s the worst he’s going to do? Fire me?”

“ _Fire_ you?” she repeated incredulously. “No. Fire me and Ros? Absolutely. You go in there and start asking him awkward questions in front of all these bigshots and my career is toast. So is Abdul’s. Sienar might just abolish the entire MPD, if he feels like it. You have no idea what you’re dealing with, Ren. I know you feel invulnerable, but there are other ways to fight other than to dismember someone or kill them with your mind. And Nieguen Sienar’s a master of _all of them._ You want to win this? Then I suggest you learn _subtlety._ Whether the murder has anything to do with Sienar or not, you can’t run around like a Mearkat in a meat mart.”

When her tirade was over, Jaymes took a step back, paling slightly, as if just realizing what she’d said, and to whom. “I’m sorry, Lord Ren, that was—I was out of line—“

“Don’t worry about it,” Kylo said, surprising even himself. Loathe as he was to admit it, she was right. If his experience with the Huxes’ machinations was anything to go by, rushing in and showing his hand led only to embarrassment. If he bared his suspicions to Sienar now, the man would have plenty of time and warning to cover his tracks. Better to come in armed with some kind of evidence, some kind of fact, than alert him to his suspicions right away.

Jaymes swallowed, unconvinced. Kylo let her sweat. Couldn’t have her getting _too_ comfortable—he _was_ in charge, after all.

“I’ll bring it up,” he said, sensing her wave of relief at the change of topic. “Ask him what he knows about Rahm. Act like I need the help. He’ll be glad to be seen as helping.”

“We _do_ need the help,” she reminded him. “We’re hitting dead ends at every turn. If you can get his Imperial record, that might change things, but for now? This investigation is going nowhere, fast.”

“I’ll get it,” he promised. “And I’ll interview some of the guests without an alibi for the time in question. I’ll be able to tell if they’re telling the truth.”

Jaymes shrugged. “Whatever you feel is best. You’re the one with the direct line to the greater cosmic insight.”

Kylo was about to protest the Force being characterized as nothing more than some mystic anonymous tipline when a piercing scream knifed through the calm.

“Deck twelve,” Kylo said, focusing his grasp on the Force and heading off at a run, Sienar and Jaymes hot on his heels. Both were speaking urgently into their comlinks, Jaymes’ hand going to the small blaster pistol at her hip. He could feel the spiking panic and fear surging all around him, intoxicatingly high, making his blood pound more swiftly through his veins, the dark welling up powerfully inside him.

He took the last set of stairs at a leap, bounding in quick strides to where an excited knot had formed at the center of the floor.

“She’s dead!” the young Bothan screamed, his creamy fur soaked with dark blood. “She’s dead—just lying there—she’s dead, she’s dead—“

Kylo shouldered through the gathered crowd, grabbing the panicked Bothan by the shoulders and pouring calm and focus into the Force, stilling his wild panic into a dull terror. “Who’s dead?”

The Bothan’s gold eyes were wide and unfocused. “The Core Workers Union rep—there’s so much blood—I think it’s her head—“

Kylo clamped down on his mind, making the Bothan’s eyes go slightly vacant. “ _Where_?”

The Bothan pointed with a shaky hand. Kylo pushed the location from his mind with a sharp tug, then lay the Bothan down on the nearest surface—a table—as he collapsed and started off to the victim.

The Sirulian woman lay covered in her own dark blood, body twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood pooled at the back of her head, merging with her long, dark hair and fanning out from her body. Her dark eyes were open and staring, her tawny skin still faintly warm.

Kylo reached out in the Force and probed for any sign of life, finding none. The faint traces of memory surrounding her were only of her final seconds, the throbbing aftershocks of a massive blow to the back of her skull that sent sympathetic shockwaves down Kylo’s spine. Gesturing slightly, he let her eyes shut.

Sienar and Jaymes came to a halt behind him, shock and confusion rolling off them in the Force.

“Is she dead?” Sienar asked. There was not a waver or tremor in his voice; Kylo could see where he’d been trained as an officer. His mind was whirring through the facts, full of suspicion, surprise, deduction, all emotion tucked away to unpack later.

“She is,” Kylo confirmed. “Blow to the back of the head.”

Sienar spun around neatly to speak to a poised Togrutan beside him. “Close off floor twelve and get everyone from this floor in a conference room, the MPD may need to speak to them. We’ve got someone taking care of the gentleman who found her—make sure the ship’s doctor sees him.”

The Togrutan nodded quickly, then disappeared and returned with enough wait staff to begin herding the huddled guests into another room.

“Is this how the First Order protects the citizens of their worlds?” A voice called out. “By letting them be murdered under their noses?”

Kylo whirled around, scanning the crowd. Another Bothan, her violet eyes calm and hard, creamy fur smooth, stood apart from the others. With a jolt Kylo recognized her as Far’yn Borsk, daughter of Fey’la Borsk and emissary from the New Republic. Even as a child she’d been just as charming as her father, who was a constant headache to Leia and the subject of much dislike from Han. Ben had avoided her and her father as often as possible.

Now, Kylo found himself hating her. He glanced to the engineer, whose expression was as unreadable as the sniper’s, and the poet, who was glaring at Borsk with thinly-disguised animosity. Jaymes looked uneasy, Sienar’s eyes narrowed fractionally.

“How many more of us will die?” Borsk continued, sending a low volley of murmurs through the crowd. Kylo could feel their shifting, uncertain fear, overwhelmingly thick. “The Order is here to protect us. Are they incompetent, or just disinterested?”

“That’s enough, Far’yn,” Sienar said crisply, fixing the Bothan with a hard look. “A woman has died. A colleague of yours. At least have enough respect to keep your agenda out of her death until we’ve found out what’s happened.”

Borsk bowed her head, not at all chastened, then allowed herself to be led away by the staff along with the other guests, aiming one last cold look the engineer’s way. Kylo swallowed, feeling Snoke’s orders reverberating in his mind. _Make sure everything proceeds to our plans._ So far, they hadn’t only failed to do so, they’d failed miserably. If he knew Borsk at all, he knew she’d turn this to her own advantage—and the advantage of the Republic.

Much as he loathed to admit it, they needed to advise the _Finalizer_ of what was happening. Kylo needed stormtroopers to protect the remaining guests, and not just the few squads and showtroops the local garrison could afford. And he needed all the data he could get on everyone aboard—and he meant everything.

This was no longer simply Jaymes and Abdul’s problem, or even Sienar’s. With the second murder and the spreading panic, this whole crisis had been landed squarely in the Order’s lap.

“You go,” Jaymes said, reading his expression, or, more likely, the situation. “Abdul’s coming up with a biodata team, I’ll keep the scene preserved until then. Keep your comm on you, we’ll keep you updated.”

Kylo nodded, then turned around and headed wordlessly for the communications center. They’d need much more than a hand-held comlink to punch through a scrambled tightbeam communiqué to the _Finalizer._ As he went, he couldn’t shake a deep-seated sense of unease. It was now clear that something had been put into motion, something he alone couldn’t possibly control, something that threatened the First Order itself.

And his vision hadn’t given him any idea of how long it would continue—or how many others would die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may put more drawings on tumblr so stay tuned if that’s for you? I was thinking maybe Jaymes, Abdul, and Sienar, and possibly the poet in his various (increasingly slutty) outfits because hghgngnngngngng
> 
> I’ll also be re-doing the tags soooon since they’re kind of a disaster zone.
> 
> See ya next Monday! I’m having so much fun with this fic you have no idea


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things. First, sorry for the late update!! This may happen, sometimes I just have too much going on to make Monday, so expect it then on Tuesday. Second, ironically, with all the Hux reveal drama, this chapter happens to coincide with a bit of backstory: let me just say now that this is not really very canon compliant in that regard. (Or, really, any regard). Third, there are a lot of silly things in this chapter, like space pizza. I’m sorry if this bothers you, but honestly, what kind of life is worth living without pizza, even if it is a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away?

“The New Republic emissary is going to be a real problem,” the engineer said, busily soldering in the First-Order scrambler he’d apparently thought to smuggle onboard into the com console Sienar had given them access to. “I don’t suppose you could, uh, _convince_ her to stop being a problem?”

Kylo laughed. “No one can convince Tar’yn Borsk to do something that doesn’t benefit her. Trust me.”

“Fair enough,” the engineer said, shrugging out of the general’s greatcoat and tossing it haphazardly on the floor by the hat. With his hair still slicked back like the general’s and his thin body bent over the high console, the scene closely resembled an embarrassing number of Kylo’s fantasies. “We’ll have to set little brother on it. That’s another job for him.”

Kylo frowned. “You call him little brother. Why is that?”

The engineer looked at him with mild interest. “Well, Father didn’t create us all at the same time,” he said. “He made our protector first. For a while he was the only one, more a bodyguard and confidant to him than anything else. Then the General, who he would raise publicly as his son and send to the Academy. I came shortly after that, but little brother didn’t come until the Order was much stronger and he was needed. So he’s the youngest.”  
  
Kylo absorbed the information wordlessly. Then, “How old are you?”

“Me? Thirty-two standard years, I think. I get it all a bit mixed up, to be honest. So the general’s thirty-three, big brother’s almost thirty-eight, and little brother’s only twenty-eight.” He flicked thoughtfully at the circuit for a while, then said, “Why? How old are you?”

Kylo considered a moment. He hadn’t legitimately thought about it in...years. “Almost twenty-nine."

The engineer made a face. “Aww, you’re a baby. Maybe we should call you little brother, too.”

Kylo scowled. The engineer ignored him, or didn’t notice, rattling on as he worked. “I think Father took the idea from the Chiss Ascendancy in the Unknown Regions,” he told him. “Shadow children. Except instead of having just one, he made three. Raised us all as one.”

Kylo didn’t know much about the Chiss, but he found them secretive, sly, and, well, shadowy. That the senior Hux had enough contact with them to know their customs did not inspire a large degree of confidence in him. “Where is your father now?”

“Dead,” the engineer said after a pause. “He was on Imperial Center for the Rebel siege of the surviving Imperial remnant. Billions died in the assault—civilians, loyalists, traitors. Father was one of them.”

Kylo’s stomach slipped around in his gut. He remembered—barely, but he did—the reclamation of Imperial Center. Or, as it was known to him, the liberation of Coruscant. Leia had been in charge of the Republic fleet, and sifting back through the memories he knew how great a toll it had taken on her. The Imperial remnant had been deeply entrenched, mostly down to only the most fanatically loyal and Homesec commandos, all armed to the teeth and capable of waging guerilla war against the Republic into perpetuity—the same style of warfare the Rebels had waged against the Empire.

Coming under fire from all sides and bullied relentlessly by the new, shockingly bloodthirsty senate, Leia had been forced to execute a rushed, partial evacuation of Coruscant’s civilians, then engage in full-scale planetary bombardment. She’d spent countless sleepless nights and endless days in the new senate, bringing all her political and military skill to the fore, railing against the slaughter, but she had been overridden.

Looking back on it now, if Kylo had to point to the day the Rebellion—and Princess Leia, with her unshakeable faith in the New Republic with it—had ended, that would be it. From Imperial Center’s ashes, General Organa, with her staunch determination not to obey the whims of the spineless senate ever again, was born. It hadn’t surprised him in the least when she broke off with the Republic to start her own war, start the Resistance.

Young Ben, maybe five or six years old then, had not understood all that. But he’d understood the Force, and his mother’s ragged, bleeding _sad, sad, sad_ and his father’s _scared, mad, scared,_ and that he could do nothing to stop it.

 _Remember Imperial Center,_ had been the fledgling First Order’s motto at the time, and they had remembered. So had Leia. So had Ben.

“I’m sorry,” Kylo said, deeply inadequate.

The engineer gave a too-casual shrug. “I was too young to really understand, maybe nine or ten. Little brother barely understood anything at all. The General...he took the worst of it. He was old enough to understand, but not old enough to know like big brother that that’s how war goes. It hit him hard.”

Kylo didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t. The engineer kept wiring, unaffected, eyes trained carefully on his work. A few minutes later the sniper and the poet returned, the poet looking troubled. He still wore his diplomat uniform, his hair a bit disheveled.

“Catching the killer is our first priority,” he said. “The Abraxis police aren’t going to do it. This is the Order’s concern.”

“And how exactly are we going to do that?” the engineer snapped.

The poet raised an eyebrow, the expression so Hux-like Kylo was almost taken aback. “I suggest we first determine whether these have been a professional hit or a personal murder. Then we look at alibis. Especially for the last killing,” he added. “People will remember where they were for the timeframe of the murder. And the MPD should be able to get an actual timeframe of death this time.”

The engineer was mollified somewhat. “How do we find out if it was a hit?”

“The Abraxii underworld,” the sniper input. “Something this high-profile, someone’s bound to know about it.”

The engineer rolled his eyes. “Well, good thing we’re all so well-acquainted with the Abraxii underworld. I bet they’ll all just be _raging_ to tell us _everything_ they know. Bonus points if they recognize any of us as First Order.”

The poet fixed his brother with a hard look. “Any better ideas?”

“Plenty,” the engineer shot back. “Starting with hailing the _Finalizer_ and asking the general what to do. This sort of thing is _his_ job—none of us are even remotely qualified. I wasn’t ready to do this in the first place, let alone handle an actual crisis—“

“This isn’t a crisis,” Kylo input quickly. “If we work with the MPD—“

“The Republic’s emissary is making it one,” the poet said, his uncertainty rising. “You’re right. The _Finalizer_ should advise. We’re out of our depth.”

Catching no further argument from either of his brothers, the engineer tuned the comm. center to the correct hailing frequency and activated the scrambler. Kylo edged out of frame, just close enough that the brothers might not notice. After a few bursts of static, the general’s face and shoulders flickered into view, hazy and indistinct. Only the blue banding pattern came through; either the _Finalizer_ was brutally overtasked, or they were running into some kind of interference.

“I heard about the deaths,” the general said without preamble. Even over the hazy holo, he looked tired, worn out. He was wearing his uniform despite the holocorder’s indication that it was past the beta shift; Kylo didn’t need the Force to know he was ready to commit murder himself.

“We don’t know who’s behind it,” the engineer said. “There’s a Resistance agitator aboard trying to turn the others against the Order—they need reassurance—“

“Then I suggest you give it to them,” the general said mildly, unamused. 

“We need your help,” the poet said, more softly, fixing their brother with supplicating eyes. “It’s our first time outside—we _need_ you.”

The general’s expression softened, just microscopically. It was clear that if he had a soft spot for any of them, it was the youngest brother. And the poet knew it.

Then he was back to normal. “I’m afraid I can’t help,” he said, clipped tones indicating almost no apology. “We’ve been engaging the Resistance all over the system, I can’t possibly be away from the bridge long enough to get to Abraxis, let alone do anything of use there.”

The engineer looked dismayed, the poet likewise. Kylo glanced over to the sniper. His face was blank of expression; if he felt any emotion at all Kylo could not register it.

Just as the poet opened his mouth to protest, the holo flashed and tinny klaxons blared over the comm. speakers. The _Finalizer_ was under attack—Hux was needed on the bridge. The general stood immediately, arranging his greatcoat hastily around his shoulders, then keyed off the transmission without another word.

“Great,” the engineer said, ripping out the scrambler and stuffing it back into his pocket, pushing his palms into the comm. console and leaning on it, his hair hanging lose from the general’s customary style and a scowl on his face. “Just what we needed. I’m so glad we spent the time exploring _that_ avenue.”

“It can’t be helped.” the sniper interjected, flicking his brother a knife-like glare. “The bridge was under attack. Would you rather he neglected it to comfort us?”

“That’s not the point and you know it,” the engineer said, firing up at the slight. “Was that even remotely helpful? Did he tell us what needed to be done? No.”

“Are we equals, or are you one of his officers?” the sniper countered.

The engineer jabbed a gloved finger his brother’s way. “I’m trained to do one thing. Design the Starkiller. I’ve spent my entire life devoted to the technology, the design, perfecting it. And have I complained? And now, now that we’re so close to beginning construction, I’m expected to put that aside to focus on this little game of _murder_?”

The sniper snorted. “ _Murder_ may be a game to you, but this isn’t blasting planets out of orbit from systems away. This killer is a threat to the Order. We must neutralize it. It’s that simple.”

The engineer opened his mouth to retaliate, a hot jab of anger surging from him—

The poet cleared his throat loudly, tossing a very obvious glance Kylo’s way. The other two’s gazes flicked his way, suddenly silent.

 _They’re hiding something,_ his instinct supplied. But what? They were within a stone’s throw from Kylo when the second murder took place. It simply wasn’t possible any of them had done it. Maybe it was something unrelated. Personal, even. Each of them were murky and unreadable in the Force, their motivations and feelings shifting and in flux, impossible to pin down. He let his gaze flick over the three identical, unreadable faces, trying not to be angry.

He failed. “If you’re done wasting time fighting?” he snapped, more roughly than he’d intended. The three of them gave him identical, frosty glares, but did not interrupt.

“I can deal with the Abraxii underworld,” he said. He pointed to the engineer, who was still sulking. “We’re going tonight. We don’t have time to waste. If it was a professional hit, we’ll find the hunter and deal with them. If it wasn’t, we’ll come back here and deal with the passengers.”

 

 

“I don’t understand why we’re going disguised,” the engineer grumbled, tugging his battered smuggler’s jacket closer around his narrow shoulders. “Wouldn’t General Hux and Kylo Ren of the First Order inspire more fear into these scum than some washed-up bounty hunters?”

Kylo snorted, his gaze catching on a Devorian who was watching them a little to intensely. “You’re space-crazy if you think anyone here would give us any information, even under duress. Much easier to just bribe our way to the information we want.”

“Right,” the engineer said, eyeing the dark streets and littering of broken glass and crumbling duracrete, the flickering neon signs lighting up the wet, broken pavement, the hunched, ambling, dark figures with extreme suspicion. He tugged at his copper ponytail, anxious. “Next time, you get to do these wonderful fucking fact-finding missions by _yourself._ ”

“I usually _do,_ ” Kylo reminded him. “Or with my Knights. Trust me, you’re not exactly number one on my list.”

He scowled, but said nothing. Kylo tried to tear his eyes away from the strip of skin where his dark shirt had ridden up over his waist, hating himself for noticing. They were there to _work_ and the guilt over breaking the Knights’ celibacy had returned with a vengeance. He was so _weak_ —he should be able to resist any temptation, let alone the paltry draw of hormones—and yet he’d been fucking his way through the clones like the fucking animal the general called him.

Kylo’s fist clenched of its own accord. This was why he chose the engineer as a companion for this mission rather than the poet—Kylo had thought he’d be less susceptible to lusting after a slightly more obnoxious personality, one that was much less interested in him. It had done almost nothing. Kylo _wanted_ with a ferocity that disgusted him.

He would not touch any of the Huxes again.

Kylo felt a tug in the Force and took a hard turn, coming to face what he could only assume was a bar or club. The scrawling Aurebesh script ‘PANDEMONIUM’ winked from the dark above a narrow door in purple and green neon. The door was dark and the inside obscured. Nobody stood outside, and nobody was going in. A few shadowy people were visible through the large windows.

Kylo started inside, the engineer trailing uncertainly behind him.

The air was cool and thick with smoke, tinged with blue. Kylo hoped it wasn’t full of something hallucinogenic. Heavy, ponderous music pounded the floor; on the far side was a simple, worn bar. A silvery, slowly undulating crowd sprawled in between, and decorative laser beams showered overhead like confetti.

Kylo waded into the thick mass of perfumed, glittery, shiny bodies. His height seemed to give him authority of some kind and the faceless figures parted for him. At last he reached the other side, pushing towards the bar and approaching.

The engineer dropped heavily onto one of the high chrome stools, then propped his head off the counter with a palm, looking bored.

“What do you want?” A platinum-blonde man with neon green and yellow streaks in his unnaturally dyed hair swaggered closer, behind the bar. His eyes were heavily made up and glittery, false eyelashes nearly an inch long weighing down his eyelids. He had an unusually strong and square jaw. Kylo realized he wasn’t exactly sure where to start.

“Who owns this place?” he asked.

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “What ‘bout him?”

Kylo was surprised he could hear over the noise. Keeping his face shadowed beneath his hood, he said, “I need to talk to him.”

The man arched an eyebrow, wiping idly at a glass with a towel. The UV light lit up the white cloth into a blinding blue-purple. “Lots of people want lots of things.”

Kylo’s right hand twitched. He restrained the impulse to grab his throat and choke the owner’s whereabouts out of him. The impulse passed, and the bartender remained oblivious. “Forget it,” he said. This was not the right place.

“Want a drink?”

Kylo shook his head. The bartender lost interest quickly and struck up conversation with the woman a few stools down.

Kylo glanced over at the engineer. He looked supremely uncomfortable, a fact that may or may not have had something to do with the pink-haired boy sitting next to him. The boy was glittery like the rest of them, and looked unsettlingly like a pixie.

“You ever done Q?” he was asking, attempting to grab at the engineer’s hair to touch. The engineer jerked away, disgruntled. “It’s, like, way more epic than glimmer. Like, by lightyears.”

The engineer slapped the boy’s hand away from his hair and slid off the stool with a scowl. Kylo could feel the pink-haired boy’s lust spilling out through the Force, intoxicatingly thick; amplified by the buzzing arousal and desire of the rest of the crowd, the animal desire to fuck whatever would fuck, it was the most Kylo could do not to grab the clone and tear at his clothes.

Kylo swallowed, feeling physically sick. The surrogate lust and emotion was an awful, dizzying high—he staggered, trying to clamp down on the _urge,_ the need. He’d made a promise to himself—he was the master of the Knights of Ren, he should also be the master of himself—

He grabbed the engineer’s thin wrist and pulled him along, knocking anyone in his way aside, spilling more than one drink and leaving a trail of consternation in his wake. The engineer was tugging at his grip, spilling out a string of expletives.

“What the hell, Ren?” he demanded, once they were outside and Kylo could breathe. “Let _go,_ you wild animal—“

Kylo let him jerk his wrist free and massage it with the other hand, looking furious. _Furious_ was a good look for him—he could imagine that would be the same expression he might wear if Kylo grabbed him and pushed him against the wall—

The entrance of club they’d just exited burst open and another group of patrons spilled out, their roiling emotion and _urge_ hitting Kylo like a stun blast. In an instant he had the engineer against the duracrete wall, gripping the clone’s slim throat, so close he could feel the clone’s breath exhale in a harsh _huff_ tickle the skin of his neck _._

The engineer’s eyes widened, surprise and anger permeating the air between them, deliciously thick. They felt good; Kylo savored the taste, his indignation, the way he attempted to jerk free.

“Ren—“ he growled and Kylo pushed against him, pinning him there with his chest, closing around him with his arms and gripping his jaw with his free hand, holding him in place.

“Someone recognized you,” Kylo said quietly, tilting his head in to breathe the words against the engineer’s swift pulse. It was true: one of the members of the group, a short Bakkar, had indeed thought he knew the engineer’s face, but could not place it. The Bakkar had a gift for faces; it was likely only because the woman was slightly drunk that she did not place it.

“That’s not all, is it,” the engineer replied, the heel of his palm pushing sharply into Kylo’s groin, drawing from him a low gasp. “Is it, Lord Ren?”

Kylo pressed his eyes shut, trying to push away the dizzying surrogate desire crashing around his skull. Dimly he could feel himself breathing hard, sweating gently. He’d never felt it this bad since he was a boy: the Knights provided an insulating force around each other to keep out even the most pervasive adopted impulses. Others’ feelings rarely had such an effect on him unless they resonated with his own. And there were just so many beings nearby, the Abraxii City teeming with overpopulated life, being pressed into being pressed into being—

“Pathetic thing, always so conflicted,” the engineer said, his voice a bit rough due to the pressure on his throat, but his expression coy, his lips pressed into a smug curve. “You can’t just let yourself want one, singular thing without guilt. Typical religious nut.”

“That’s not true,” Kylo snapped. The effort expended to keep out the others’ drives was brewing into a searing headache.

“Isn’t it?” the engineer countered lazily, relaxing in Kylo’s grip and hooking one long leg around Kylo’s waist as Kylo pushed his hip between the clone’s legs. Kylo held him in place with the Force and he wrapped the other around Kylo’s hips, his thighs pressed tightly around Kylo’s waist. His entire body was soft like his brother’s, squishy and fleshy and pliant like a teenager’s. Not yet hard, unyielding. “Why don’t you show me what you _want,_ then?”

The fantasy spilled out of him faster than he could possibly catch it. A seedy, generic dive bar with worn pitted tables that rocked on their legs, the engineer’s pale body lying on the tabletop, mostly naked. Kylo’s hands around his narrow waist as he fucked him, the clone’s pale limbs splayed out so beautifully his obscene, breathy moans as he writhed around Kylo’s cock and arched against the tabletop. The rowdy shouts and cheers as the others watched on, their hot lust and jealousy almost as satiating as his blushing partner’s shame and bliss at the debauchery.

“Quite the exhibitionist streak in you, Lord Ren,” the engineer drawled. His high cheekbones were flushed and his lips wet, his cock slightly hard against Kylo’s stomach. “Taking me on a table where everyone can see? That’s impractical even for you.”

“You’d enjoy it,” Kylo said. “The humiliation. Getting fucked in front of so many people, their eyes watching you. I could let you hear their thoughts. Hear them call you a filthy fucking whore or whatever it is small-minded people call strangers. You’d love it. I know you would.”

The engineer licked his lips, his legs tightening around Kylo’s waist. “Then do it,” he said, his tone mocking, almost a challenge. “There’s a shitty bar right across the street. You could carry me over and throw me on the table and there isn’t a thing they could do about it. They might even cheer you on.”

Kylo was tempted. The engineer wouldn’t resist and the shamefully delicious fantasy would be his. His master would never know. The general, if he found out, would boil in fruitless fury that Kylo had used one of _his_ precious brothers for all to see. His Knights—

“We need to get the information we came for,” Kylo said, his throat suddenly dry. He let go of the engineer’s throat, leaning back slightly to let the clone’s feet find the ground. “We have to keep looking.”

The engineer gave him a lazy smile, pushing his mussed hair back from his eyes. “See? Religious Force-user guilt and repression setting in already. Does denying yourself make you stronger or something?”

Kylo fixed him with a glare, letting him fall, the clone only able to catch himself at the last minute. “It’s called discipline. If you’d ever set foot into the field, you might understand.”

The engineer gave him an amused look. “I know about discipline. And so would you, seeing how you rutted like a mongrel against brother’s boot.”

Kylo turned around, refusing to be baited, and headed towards the cantina across the street called the Twisted Spoon _._ Its doors were shut, its windows shuttered. Poorly rendered smooth synthjazz was audible as he drew nearer. He pushed the doors open and strode through directly to the bar, the engineer trailing behind him.

“Corellian whiskey, dark,” he said without thinking, wincing mentally as he thought of the same words in Han Solo’s voice, as he’d heard it thousands of times. “Or whatever’s closest.”

The Besalisk behind the bar gave him a wide grin. “Do you consider Takodanian ale close, mister?”

Kylo shrugged. “Close enough.”

The Besalisk grunted, evidently pleased. He pulled a glass and filled it with a dark amber liquid, pushing it over the counter Kylo’s way. “That’ll be four Imperial credits.”

Kylo tossed him a chip worth easily ten times that and accepted the ale, taking a strong pull. It tasted awful, but he was careful not to express that opinion. Steeling himself, he took another sip. How did Han drink this shit? It was incomprehensible.

The Besalisk’s expression grew guarded as he noted the denomination of the credit chip. “Is there...anything else I can do for you, mister?”

Kylo gave him his best Solo grin. It failed momentously, feeling somewhat nightmarish on his face, but he doubted the Besalisk would appreciate the forgery. “Just being sociable.”

The Besalisk’s easy grin returned. “Ah, sociable.” He touched one of his thick, scaly fingers to his flat nose. “Of course, mister. You aimin’ to be sociable about anything in particular?”

Kylo shrugged, dropping onto the stool with an easy smile, subduing the Force around him and nudging any stray interest aside. “Now that you mention it, I’d love to hear anything you might have heard about the murders on the fancy boat in the sky.”

“Sienar’s boat?” The Besalisk laughed. “I’d heard. Gave me a mighty good chuckle, too. Someone gave those rich _shab_ s a real thing to fret about.”

Kylo leaned in closer, dropping his voice lower, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice and expression. He had to seem only casually interested, or the Besalisk might get nervous. “You don’t know if it was someone local, do you?”

“Local? You mean a pro?” The Besalisk shook his head. “Not that I know, and word travels fast around here at the Spoon. Hells, though, if you really wanna know...” he trailed off, eyeing Kylo suspiciously. “You could ask Tando over there. The broodin-lookin Trandoshan over there. He makes it his business to know all the business that goes down in Abraxii City.” He pointed discretely, motioning towards an otherwise empty booth with a hulking, narrow-eyed Trandoshan slouched at the pitted table.

“I appreciate your discretion,” Kylo said, pushing over another large chip. “Like I said, just being sociable.”

“Of course mister,” the Besalisk said with a wink. “Always do love conversation, me.”

Kylo let the compression of the Force dissipate and several eyes swung his way. The engineer was already eying Tando—a bounty hunter, if Kylo’s instinct was anything to go by—his expression unreadable.

“Follow my lead,” Kylo said under his breath, then started over slowly to the empty booth. Tando looked up at him, his reptilian eyes unimpressed. Kylo took in his yellow flightsuit, his thick clawed hands clamped around a huge mug of ale, the concealed blaster at his side.

“What do you want?” Tando asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Trandoshans were hard to read, but Kylo didn’t need the Force to sense his distrust.

“Just wondered if you might know anything about who’s been popping off patrons on Sienar’s boat,” Kylo said, schooling his stance into the relaxed, open one Han Solo favored when dealing with trigger-happy hunters.

Tando barely looked up from his ale. “Thousand Imperial credits.”

Kylo rolled his eyes. It wasn’t even an affectation. “A hundred.”

Tando smiled at him with all his huge, triangular teeth. “Two thousand, and a lapdance with your boyfriend over there. Try and bargain again and it’ll be three, and I’ll want him all night.”

Kylo’s hands balled into fists. Anger burst hotly through his blood— _mine,_ something in his head whispered, and he reached into the Force to grip the Trandoshan’s thick, scaly neck—

The engineer’s sharp elbow drove into Kylo’s ribs. Pushing past Kylo, he wove his way into the booth and sidled up to the larger being, putting one slim hand on Tando’s scaled arm. Dipping in close, he said in a low undertone, “Is all of you that big, or am I going to be disappointed?”

Tando hissed out a laugh. “Trust me, little human, far more than you can handle.”

Kylo had an invasive thought of the clone’s narrow body riding a proportionately large, scaly cock and felt his skin burn with intermingled anger and lust. Ben Solo had an unfortunate run-in with Trandoshan/human porn in his youth and had never recovered. After that Leia had insisted Han flush the _Falcon’s_ databanks, to his father and Chewie’s loud protests.

The engineer dropped his gaze briefly to Tando’s crotch, his pink tongue darting over his lips. He did not protest when Tando took his waist in his clawed hands and pulled him onto his lap, straddling the Trandoshan’s muscular thighs and rolling his hips slightly.

Tando aimed a toothy smirk Kylo’s way. “Are all humans this eager, or just yours?”

The engineer shot Kylo a gimlet stare that suggested if he so much as twitched he would be eviscerated. Then he pulled the tie out of his hair, letting it fall down lose over his shoulders, allowing Tando to card through it, marveling at the color.

“I don’t have the two thousand on me,” the engineer whispered, dipping in close enough that Tando could probably feel his breath on his skin as he began to rock his hips with more force, a gentle back and forth. “But consider this advance payment.”

“I’ll consider it,” Tando hissed. “Take off your clothes. I want to see if humans are the same color all over.”

Kylo was at his breaking point. If Tando kept up this rigmarole much longer, he was going to push the information from his mind, effort expended notwithstanding.

With a coy smile the engineer reached for his waistband—

The Force shouted a warning heartbeats before it happened but Kylo still found himself unprepared. The engineer drew a thin vibroblade and drove it into Tando’s thigh. It wasn’t a perfect incision; a thin spray of blood splattered over the engineer’s pale face and in his hair. But it was whip-fast and caught the Trandoshan entirely by surprise.

Tando cursed wildly, one hand gripping his blaster and pressing it under the clone’s chin. “You kriffing _shab—_ you fucking barve—“

“As long as this blade stays where it is, you’ll live,” the engineer told him coolly. “If I move it, you may suffer internal bleeding. If I remove it, the rupture in your femoral artery—analogous to the human artery of the same name—will give you ten minutes to live, assuming I don’t sever it entirely. The nearest medcenter is probably...oh, maybe fifty minutes away. You picking up what I’m laying down? Good. Then put the blaster down.”

Tando glared. The engineer’s expression did not change as he gave a sharp snap of his hips against the blade’s handle, drawing out a prolonged hiss from the hunter. Behind Kylo, other patrons were drawing their weapons, the Besalisk backing slowly out of the room. With a truly fearsome display of teeth, Tando lowered the blaster.

“On the table,” the engineer said, patting a space behind him. The bounty hunter complied.

“Good. Now, tell me everything you know about the killings on Sienar’s ship.”

Tando hissed, harsher this time. “I’m going to cut the stringy meat off your human bones and crack them with my teeth for the marrow.”

The engineer made a fond _tut-tut_ sound. “The hospital is probably awfully busy this time of night. Might delay the ambulance—if you savages even _have_ an ambulance. Answer the question.”

“There was no hit out on those idiots,” Tando growled. “Trust me, I would have known about it. They were offworlders, anyways, no one here would have put out a hit. And we didn’t have any offworlder hunters either, with the exception of you two,” he added with a snarl. “So no, whoever’s knocking off those dimwits ain’t a professional.”

“I’d think very carefully if I were you,” the engineer said, his voice dropping into the silky registers of the general’s. “Are you sure about this?”

“Ask anyone you fucking want,” Tando snapped. “Everyone knows. If I fucking knew who did it I’d tell you, you fucking psycase— _kriff!”_ he finished as the engineer pulled at the blade.

“All right, I’ll believe you,” the engineer said with a thin smile. Leaning over, he planted a kiss to Tando’s large forehead. “Thank you.”

“Then will you—“

Whatever the hunter was going to demand was lost to posterity as the engineer gripped the blade and wrenched it free. Dark blood sprayed out in a jagged fan, splashing the clone and bathing him in deep crimson. The cantina erupted into chaos, patrons yelling and blasters brandished and a panicked Tando yelling, “ _Stop waving those around and get me a fucking med droid!”_ as the engineer slipped off his lap and grabbed Kylo’s wrist.

Kylo pushed a group of angry hunters set to charge them away with the Force, sending them stumbling into the bar stools and the crowd into a fresh round of panic. The engineer snagged an abandoned coat on his way out the door, looking very pleased with himself.

“Are you insane?” Kylo demanded once they were outside and Kylo had tripped the lock behind them. Already, angry shouts could be heard behind the doors. “What in the worlds made you pull that idiotic stunt? He could have blown your head off—“

The engineer yanked on Kylo’s wrist and pulled him into an alleyway, then through a door that lead into the filthy back hall of some kind of cantina. A flickering, grimy sign advertised the freshers; the engineer pushed him through and bumped open a filthy stall with peeling paint on the walls.

“What are you—“

He knew when the engineer pushed him inside the tiny, narrow stall, slamming into Kylo’s back with all his meager weight and seizing his wrists. Kylo made a surprised noise and pushed back—

A knee jutted hard between his legs and teeth scraped at the back of his neck, hot breath teasing his skin. Through his thin shirt he could feel the wetness of the hunter’s blood on the engineer’s body pressing into his back. He could smell it and it smelled good and sharp and tangy, just like the leg between his own felt good, they were good together. He breathed it in, the fresh death and the engineer’s lust dizzying.

“Have you done this before?” the engineer asked, not coy, just factual. Asking.

Kylo shook his head no. The paint near his face was flaking off, revealing another even worse coat underneath.

“Okay,” the engineer said and reached for Kylo’s belt. Undid it. Wrapped it around his wrists and pushed his arms over his head like some kind of bizarre prayer ritual, lashed it tight. Wrapped his arms around his waist and undid his pants, pushing them off his hips. Took something from his pocket and Kylo felt himself gasp as something cool touched him, pushed inside.

“Relax,” the engineer said and Kylo pushed out a harried breath, trying to push down the uncertainty and shame with his breathing, and it felt almost like some kind of Jedi meditation technique and _hells_ he could not think of that now—

“Stop thinking, you’re overthinking. Think about how much you want this. Think about how good you want to be for me.” The engineer’s bloody hand, stroking his shoulder. The other, also bloody, slicked with lube and working up Kylo’s ass.

Kylo felt himself moan, a high, breathy sound he couldn’t have identified as coming from him. He _wanted_ to be good, he wanted to know what Hux’s cock felt like, he wanted to know what it was like to be fucked. He wanted to _be_ fucked. So he pushed out another breath and let himself open, let the engineer work him open, patiently, like fixing stuck machinery.

And it felt so good. Waves of heat and pressure pushed up his spine, radiating to his limbs, making his skin burn and heat pool in his cock. The engineer slipped a second finger in and he felt himself moan again, feeling the pressure intensify, the fullness he’d felt the poet crave, the fullness he wanted now.

“Good,” the engineer breathed against his neck and Kylo shivered. He wanted to beg for more, beg for more than just using his hand to open him, to beg for him to just fuck him as he was now.

A third finger, a cool hand on his waist. Kylo cried out, biting the cry down, gritting his teeth. He felt himself pushing back against the engineer’s hand, clenching automatically—

“ _Relax,_ ” the engineer bit out and Kylo whined, satisfied only when the engineer took his hand from his waist and held him against the stall, another finger added. He was going faster now and Kylo could feel his cock growing heavy; he was afraid he’d come from just the fingers, he had to hold on—

The engineer pulled out his hand with a slick sound and fumbled with his own pants, pushing them down and freeing his already hard cock. Then he palmed himself down and grabbed Kylo’s waist and _pushed._ Kylo whimpered pathetically and grabbed at the top of the stall with one bound hand and kept moaning as the engineer began to rock his hips against him, firm but gentle.

“You know anyone could walk in here,” the engineer said softly against his ear. “They’d hear us. Hear you. Moaning like a two-credit whore. See us, even. I haven’t shut the door. They’d see Kylo Ren, scourge of the Resistance, with a cock up his ass. And you love that, don’t you?”

Kylo cried out his assent, words refusing to pool into thoughts and sentences. The thought was intoxicating. He thought of who could walk in that door. The general. His mother. Snoke himself. He could hear himself panting, hear his own harsh gasps and strangled moans, almost everything eclipsed by the waves of pleasure slamming up his spine at every thrust. His hard cock was pressed into the stall, his hands above him raking down flakes of paint as he clawed at the wall.

The engineer’s breath was coming more quickly now, his thrusts harder, more rough. His hands gripped Kylo’s sides with bruising strength, fingers digging into him; he sank his teeth into Kylo’s shoulder and Kylo cried out in breathy rapture. He didn’t feel like himself; he could feel the blood trickling down his skin and its salty warmth in the engineer’s mouth, the fullness in his ass and the velvet muscle around the engineer’s cock, the chafing of his belt around his wrists and the shifting muscle of his own back against the engineer’s chest, both their steadily building orgasms, almost at the breaking point—the engineer’s hand wrapping around his cock—

They came at once and Kylo felt himself cry out and arch against the stall, at once emptied and filled, feeling warm come spilling down his thighs and his stomach and a wave of bliss that dropped him to his knees. He lay his head against the cool metal and sobbed as his entire body was carpeted in bliss and everything felt warm and almost overwhelmingly good.

He felt the engineer’s hands working his wrists free, then his arms around him, tight and comforting. His sloppy kisses on Kylo’s mouth and forehead, slim fingers wiping at his tears. “Shh,” he murmured, hand rubbing his back in small, slow circles. “That was good. You were great. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Kylo whimpered, the praise lighting a secondary, near-orgasmic glow in his chest. He did feel embarrassed, pathetic, but he also felt so good, the two feelings at war with each other. “We—we should go,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. His knees were still jelly—his _feet_ of all things felt oddly sensitive—every barest whisper over his skin was registered tenfold.

He pushed himself to his feet, righting his clothes, arranging his hood over his head. The roughspun wool felt rough in his hands and nagged of guilt, anger at himself for failing. For wanting. He’d proved himself weak once again.

He pushed past the engineer, marching into the hall, clenching a mental fist around a passing waitress’ mind so hard she stumbled and dropped. The engineer hurried after him, indignant.

“What the hell was that for?” he demanded, dropping down on a knee to check her pulse.

Kylo did not answer. He felt like hitting a wall.

 

 

 

It was late when he and the engineer caught a return shuttle to Sienar’s ship, nearly 0300. The poet was asleep, the faint warm lamplight dusting his features, his breathing slow. He did not wake; for that Kylo was grateful. The engineer peeled off his stolen coat, tossed it aside, and headed straight for the bath. Kylo pulled off his cowl and kicked off his boots, still angry.

The sniper, half-sitting, half-lying on the couch with a nearly empty bottle of genuine Corellian ale in his hand, raised a questioning brow. The holo projected before him paused, sensing his gaze elsewhere.

“Not a professional job,” Kylo said, dropping down on the couch beside him, a sharp twinge shooting up his spine. “Nor a local one.”

The sniper followed the smeared trails of blood on his skin and kept his eyebrow raised.

Kylo gave him an impressive look. “You should see the other guy.”

The sniper looked skeptical, but handed him a bottle nonetheless. Kylo twisted it open and took a long pull; it too tasted like shit. Kylo couldn’t imagine how he drank the stuff.

“They delivered a datapad for you,” the sniper said suddenly. At this close quarter Kylo could properly hear his voice; it was quiet, husky, tinged with an accent much different from the other brothers’ affected Coruscanti accents. “PC Jaymes said you’d know the lock code.”

Figures. Somehow Kylo had to imagine Abdul had a hand in this test of his prescient skills. “Thanks.”

“It’s in your room,” he added, heavily implying that’s where Kylo ought to retire.

Kylo crossed his arms over his chest and made no move. The sniper stared at him, impassive. Kylo stared back. After a long, dull moment, the sniper sighed and motioned for the holo to continue. Something about the programme’s teary-eyed hero and stalwart heroine jogged Kylo’s memory; his nose wrinkled. This was _A Star to Call Home,_ Chewie’s favorite soap opera, starring the somehow perpetually pregnant couple, a cast of quirky misfits, and plot holes big enough to fly a _Resurgent-_ class through.

The sniper’s sharp, narrowed eyes flicked Kylo’s way, daring him to challenge him. Kylo kept his expression neutral, training his eyes on the projection where the Aqualish bachelor was tearfully contemplating his elderly mother’s imminent surgery, reassured by the plucky (but also single) Rodian nurse.    Apparently satisfied, the sniper snagged another bottle of ale and popped it open with one hand, watching the cheesy-heartfelt dialogue like a hawk.

Nearly an hour later the engineer emerged from the bath, no longer covered in blood and smelling too-strongly of flowers, nothing but a towl wrapped around his narrow hips. He shot a look Kylo’s way but Kylo ignored him carefully, keeping his eyes on the holo, where the bachelor’s father stared down mounting gambling debts and possible alcoholism.

The engineer slipped on a silky black robe and nothing more, climbing into bed next to the poet, putting an arm protectively around his little brother’s waist. The poet, still fast asleep, snuggled against him. Soon, they were both out like lights.

By around 0600 Kylo was very drunk and had a splitting headache from sleep deprivation and the early rumblings of a hangover, practically begging the sniper to play the next episode.

“B-but, Gr....ace is about to have...mmm....the baby,” Kylo slurred, clutching at the sniper’s arm. “The _baby,_ ” he repeated, in case he didn’t hear.

“The baby lives,” the sniper told him, unimpressed. “Grace is fine. The Rodian gets with the Aqualish in season twenty-three. The alien abduction plotline is dropped due to protests of xenophobia.”

Kylo squinted up at him, his sharp face swimming slightly before him. “Has....has ‘nyone ever told you......you’re a real fucking asshole?”

“It’s been mentioned, yes.”

“Oh.” Kylo frowned. “Good.”

The sniper pushed his grip off, putting his last bottle aside and pulling Kylo to his feet. “Bed, or I’ll tell you who’s blackmailing the mother.”

Kylo stood to attention best he could, stumbling towards the bed. If only the floor wasn’t so soft. And shaky. He was very good at walking, he knew that. The best, even. It was just the traitorous floor.

He lay down heavily next to the engineer, his fingers brushing his still-damp coppery hair, feeling the sniper lie down next to him. Then, instantly he was asleep.

 

 

 

“Lord Ren?” Jaymes said, her voice tinged with concern. “You don’t look good. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Kylo muttered. This, however, could not be further from the truth. He felt nauseated, exhausted, thoroughly sick. Every sound and flash of light rasped painfully at his raw, pulsing headache. His body ached in undignified places when he moved; in short, he was feeling absolutely murderous.

“You don’t look fine,” Abdul said skeptically, but didn’t push further.

“What did you need to tell me?” Kylo asked, forcing his mud-slow mind to trudge into motion.

“Well, first, the general brought in a whole company of troops in. Very fancy. They’re fanning out all over the boat, making sure they’re visible—and keeping watch. That’ll make it much harder for the killer to strike again, knowing they’re being watched. Also, the result came in on the murder weapons. Generic army or hunting knife for the first, rounded blunt object for the second. Third, we’ve rounded up everyone who didn’t have an alibi for the first murder—Abdul and I are still working on cross-checking alibis for the second. We thought you might want to talk to them.”

Kylo groaned inwardly, thinking longingly of solitude and a soft bed. “Of course.”

He interviewed an elderly Chandra-Fan first, a banker who claimed to be overwhelmed by grief for his late wife and to have spent that evening alone with her urn. Kylo checked his memories for conformation and was confronted by some truly shocking recollections that he was not nearly equipped to contemplate that early in the morning. Unsettled, disgruntled, and not a little bit judgmental, Kylo dismissed him.

Next he spoke to a rather aggressive Bith who insisted she ought to have a lawyer present, threatening him with litigation, the press, even a subpoena, as if Kylo even knew or cared what that was. Finally he lost his temper and informed her that unless her lawyer could heal cereberal hemorrhage, there wasn’t much one could do for her if she didn’t answer his questions in the next few minutes. After a few seconds of resistance, she finally caved and admitted (rather proudly) that she and the stewardess from deck twelve had spent the evening in a torrid affair. Checking her memories—more discretely this time—Kylo confirmed this, and let her go.

By the time he’d reached food poisoning man—a somewhat sweaty, vaguely helpful human with wispy blonde hair and skittery eyes—Kylo had crushing headache and a deep-seated need to vomit. Skipping the human’s gleeful recounting of his illness—confirmed by the ship’s doctor—he gave his memory a cursory check and excused himself hastily to the ‘fresher.

When he returned, Nieguen Sienar had appeared, sporting one of his customary slim dark suits and a twitchy blonde technician named Matt who claimed to have restored the faulty cameras to life and gaped stupidly at Kylo as if he’d hung the moon, stars, and maybe even the whole solar system.

“Thank you, Matt,” Sienar said firmly once he’d relinquished the recordings, placing a hand on the technician’s shoulder, a clear dismissal. Matt stared at them all with big, brown eyes that reminded Kylo uncomfortably of a kicked dog, then slouched away, despondent.

“There’s still some missing,” Sienar said apologetically. “I’ve got men working on it, but Matt belabored the point to me that it was a near miracle that he got this footage back as it is.”

Near miracle. Also very convenient, if the footage confirming Sienar’s alibi—along with the engineer’s and the sniper’s—was among the recovered tape. Kylo would be willing to bet good money it wasn’t a coincidence.

“I don’t suppose you could tell us anything about either victim?” Kylo asked. Jaymes glanced over at him sharply, sensing his intent to ask about Rahm.

Sienar thought a moment, frowning. “Rowena—I’m sorry, the Core Worker’s Union Rep, Rowena Rance—I didn’t know personally, but she was a long-standing colleague of mine. We work closely with the CWU, so I saw a lot of her. A very competent woman. In good standing in her organization, I believe.”

Kylo nodded. He could confirm this later with Jaymes and Abdul—he had to imagine Rowena Rance would have more public information available about her than Corsair Rahm. “And Rahm?”

Sienar’s well-groomed eyebrows raised. “What about him?”

“We haven’t been able to find much on him,” Jaymes volunteered quickly, shooting Kylo a warning look. “We were wondering if you happened to know anything.”

“I see,” Sienar said, frowning slightly. “Well, I invited Corsair for personal reasons, rather than business. I’ve known him some while—he was an old acquaintance of my father’s. But I never knew him well myself. Grandfathered in on the guest list, if you will. I’m sorry I can’t help more.”

“So you invited a man to your personal soirée that you barely knew?” Kylo said.

Sienar’s eyebrow raised and Jaymes shot Kylo a look that promised murder. “What Lord Ren means, sir, is that was Master Rahm primarily your father’s acquaintance?”

“I just said that, yes,” Sienar said, a slight twinge of annoyance working into his crisp voice. “Is that all? I do hate to be rude, but I’ve got many things to take care of for this evening—the guests are starting to arrive in the main hall—“

“Go ahead, please,” Jaymes said with a plastered-on smile that lasted just longer than the time it took Sienar to leave the room. As soon as she was gone, Abdul’s polite expression had grown disgruntled and Jaymes’ grown murderous.

“ _Lord Ren,_ ” she began in the gritty tones of someone who was stuck in between a rock and a hard place, “I thought we discussed our _tactic_ in dealing with Master Sienar.”

“He’s hiding something,” Kylo replied. “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it too. Grandfathered in on the guest list? What banthashit. He barely even talked about Rance, too—he’s deflecting the question—“

“Or, he’s a busy man who considers our investigation beneath him,” Jaymes shot back. “You don’t seem to have a lot of experience with these types, Lord Ren, but trust me, when you do this job for as long as Ros and I, you see some shit.”

Kylo shrugged, unconvinced but seeing no reason to argue the point. “Did you discover anything about the note?”

“The handwriting’s Rahm’s,” Abdul said, shaking his head. “We checked against his financial records and it was a pretty conclusive match. So we know he wanted to tell you something, something that was bothering him, clearly. And it’s very possible he was murdered for it.”

“Who’s the ‘them,’ though?” Jaymes asked. “He had to have thought it would have been intuitive enough for Lord Ren to realize, wouldn’t he? What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear ‘them?’”

“The Republic,” Kylo lied. Rahm couldn’t have known about the clones. It was impossible. He hadn’t even known, and he was of the same rank as the general—

Jaymes nodded, buying it, a frown creasing her face. “That’s possible,” she said. “I mean, theoretically. The Republic _could_ have perpetrated the murders, maybe to avenge something Rahm did, or silence something he knew. Or maybe just to make the Order look bad, or blame it on someone they wanted out strategically. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, though. Why would he tell you not to trust the Order’s enemies, rather than just say the Republic was planning something? A ‘they’re up to something’ note, rather than a ‘don’t trust them’?”

“If it was something to do with Rahm’s past, his military file would help,” Abdul chipped in, fixing Kylo with a reproving look. “Did you obtain the records, Lord Ren?”

Kylo started guiltily, hot with embarrassment. “I put in the request last night,” he said. “The file should arrive soon.” He’d order it that night—even better, right when he got back to their quarters.

“Good,” Jaymes said. “Did you detect anything about the people you interviewed?”

Other than a new and exciting understanding of Chandra Fan anatomy? No. He said as much. “The food poisoning guy was a bit weird, though,” he added.

Jaymes snorted. “Peyter Plumm? Professor at multiple Inner Core universities? Weird is an understatement. Doesn’t mean he murdered anyone.”

Abdul’s commlink twittered and both officers started, the Quarren grabbing the com and flipping it open and ducking out of hearing range. Jaymes offered an apologetic grimace and hurried after him, the conversation clearly done. Kylo was grateful—he needed to meditate, clear his mind, maybe take a nap first, have something to eat.

Turning around, he headed off for their quarters—

—and almost directly into Tar’yn Borsk, who had been standing some feet away. Kylo frowned; how long had she been there? Had she heard—?

“Lord Ren,” she greeted cordially, the affectation not hiding the coldness in her tone at all. “Any progress on the investigation?”

Kylo scowled. “I can’t say.”

“Really,” she said, a vicious little smirk gracing her thin mouth. “That’s unfortunate, my lord. I was rather hoping I might be able to...reassure some of the guests. They’ve clung to me in this unfortunate time, I’m happy to say, and any good news I could give them would be so _greatly_ appreciated.”

Kylo lurched forward, a snarl breaking over his face. Borsk danced a step back, her expression unchanged. “I wouldn’t,” she said with a small smile, her gem-like eyes sparkling in her creamy fur. “I don’t know if you remember me, Lord _Ren,_ but I remember you. I know your eyes.”

She crossed one paw over the other, perfectly cool, not skipping a beat, staring levelly into his furious gaze. “I know you betrayed the Republic. So forgive me if I take _personal_ pleasure in making your—and your precious First Order’s—monumental failure known. And believe me, you can’t hope to stop me.”

Kylo grabbed her throat, a vice-like grip in the Force. “What did you say?” he demanded, his teeth bared, rage pounding through his veins in an unstoppable tide. “ _What did you say_?”

Borsk’s eyes widened reflexively and her slim paws went to her throat, then pushed back down, her eyes narrowing. “I—said— _Ben—_ that you and your precious Order better count their days on Abraxis.”

He should have killed her. He should have crushed her on the spot, sent her bloodied corpse back to Leia Organa and her Republic and Brork’s stupid, meddling father, just for saying that name. Having the brazen _gall_ to say that name, spit it in his face, make him remember—

He let go of his grip and she dropped, massaging at her throat and breathing heavily, not at all cowed. When her eyes lifted up again, they blazed with a challenge.

Two could play that game. “Careful, Tar’yn,” he said lowly, crouching down to her level, head tilted just slightly to the side. She flinched, just slightly, but the reflex was there. She was afraid. She should be. He did what she didn’t expect, extending into her space, taking her chin in his fingers. Her fur was soft; he could feel the slightest tremor in her, almost too fine to detect. “You’ve always loved to start fires. Some day you’re going to get burned.”

Then he stood in a fluid motion and turned, setting off for their quarters, letting her furious gaze smolder against his back.

 

 

 

“Lord Ren!” the poet exclaimed, the Force around him lighting with joy. He tossed aside his datapad and scrambled off the bed to hug him, burying his head in Kylo’s arm. Kylo stood uncomfortably in his embrace, warring urges tugging in opposite directions, guilt from the last night resurfacing with a vengeance that almost made him gag.

At last the poet let go, beaming up at Kylo with uncomplicated happiness. “I ordered lunch,” he reported proudly. “By myself. I had it delivered. It’s called pizza, have you ever tried pizza? I really love it, I’ve never had it before, but I’m going to make brother get us some back on the _Finalizer,_ it’s that good. There’s plenty left, you’ve got to try it—“

Kylo allowed himself to be dragged to the bed, where an entire box of pizza was shoved into his lap. It _did_ smell good, hot and salty and oily. It had been such a long time since he’d had pizza. Ben had loved it, so had Poe—

Kylo grabbed the nearest piece and bit into it savagely, tearing off a bite and chewing hard. The poet eyed him with vague concern but did not question. Kylo forced himself to focus on the cheese, the tomato-soaked bread, the crispy crust that dusted his hands with flour.

He had to get out of this place. It was doing him no good—he was losing rapidly all the gains Snoke had made with his training. Being away from the Order, his Master, back into old territory, surrounded by temptation in the form of soft skin and flesh and pink lips and orange hair—

The poet leaned forwards to claim another piece of pizza, stuffing into his mouth with a happy sigh. All the clones had varying degrees of awful eating manners, and Kylo hardly paid attention to these things anymore. But when faced with a grown man laboriously pushing an entire slice of pizza into his mouth and chewing it, even Kylo had to draw a line.

He’d seen the general eat once. He was neat, prim, proper, had the maddening habit of using a fork with everything. Then again, the poet had never been meant to see outside society. There was no need to teach him manners.

Poe had eaten like that. It had driven Leia mad the one time he’d brought the pilot home, but she had been too polite to mention it, preferring to suffer in silence. Han had found it hilarious—

Kylo threw down the half-eaten slice and dropped to the floor, arranging himself around his new datapad. He needed to order Rahm’s file—he needed to mediate, block out these unwanted thoughts—

“What’s wrong?” the poet asked, peering over the side of the mattress, looking concerned. His long hair hung around his face, his lips very pink. His diplomat’s uniform was open at the collar, offering an inviting few of his collarbones.

“Nothing,” Kylo said brusquely, powering on the pad and typing in the first passcode that came to mind. It was correct; he was hardly surprised.

The poet clambered down from the bed, crouching down next to him. Then he dipped in close and brushed his lips against Kylo’s.

Kylo jerked back, nearly spilling backwards, catching himself with his hand. He would _not_ give in again, he would _not._ The poet gave chase, pressing his lips to Kylo’s again, kissing him lightly—

Kylo’s hand found his thin chest and pushed, knocking him back on his hands. The clone’s eyes widened, almost comically, then his lower lip began to tremble, hurt bleeding from him in the Force. He blinked, rapidly, trying to banish sudden tears, his cheeks suddenly blotched with pink. “Lord Ren—I—“

“Go away,” Kylo snapped. The poet stared dumbly at him, shining eyes still blinking, biting hard at his lower lip. Then he scrambled to his feet and rushed out of the room, the door swishing aside just in time and shutting behind him.

Kylo refused to feel bad, forcing himself to focus on the datapad. He’d done what he needed to do, done his duty. The Order needed him. Messaging the nearest garrison was easy enough—he accessed Order records, typing in Rahm’s name—

 _Access denied,_ an error message declared. _Insufficient clearance._

Kylo frowned. He’d logged in as his personal account—there was no reason he should be denied access. He tried again. Same result.

Annoyed and quite a bit frustrated, he fired off a testy message to the general, demanding he fix the situation immediately. It was by now means Hux’s job, more meant for an archivist or a technician, but he enjoyed the thought of the general’s tiny fury as forwarded the message off to the right person.

Then, tossing the datapad aside, he folded his legs in a cross-legged position and shut his eyes, focusing inwards, pressing out hard breaths, focusing on the sharp core of anger always simmering under the surface. It was distant, hard to reach, coated with a thick film of unease, confusion...satisfaction. Kylo pushed through, pushing down on stray thoughts, summoning the anger that came so easily to the front.

He considered trying to contact his Master. If Snoke was willing, it wouldn’t be impossible over this distance, but he was afraid his Master might sense his recent failure on his mind and punish him for it. Snoke could, however, help clear his mind and refocus him, allow him to see this particular challenge in new light, see what he hadn’t—couldn’t—without help.

_I—said—Ben—that you and your precious Order better count their days on Abraxis._

Kylo startled, all focus lost. The threat rang in his ears; he was breathing hard, Borsk’s smug, stupid face bright in his mind’s eye. Seizing on that anger, he sank into the Force once more.

The champagne glass swam teasingly in his mind, a single red drop unfurling over and over, then broken by a single shot, the flash of a knife. Then the same champagne glass, the same flash, the same shot. Over and over. The Force remained obdurate, refusing him any further insight. The currents around him felt murky, ever-shifting, indistinct, maddeningly murky. The truth was in sight, he knew it, right in front of him but he just couldn’t pierce through to see it—the champagne glass, the red drop of blood, the flash, the shot—and above all, the terrible, imminent thrill of danger.

“Hey, Lord Ren,” the engineer’s voice exclaimed cheerily, jerking Kylo from his feverish thoughts. “Still, uh, honing your emotions or whatever?”  
  
Kylo glared. “I was mediating.”

“Ooh, do tell,” he said, dropping onto the floor across from him and propping his chin up on his hands. He was still dressed as the general, giving a very strange impression. “You didn’t happen to be thinking on how you hogged all the shampoo this morning, did you?”

Kylo’s glare dropped to a glower. “I did no such thing.”

“Oh _right,”_ the engineer said, with elaborate sarcasm. “That explains why all the shampoo that was left in the bottle _last_ night disappeared, and this morning I discovered long, very _black_ hairs in the drain. Honestly, have you ever cohabitated in your life? The truth wills out, Ren. The truth wills out.”

Behind him the sniper rolled his eyes, pulling an iced Dantooine Freeze out of the fridge and pushing the door shut with his foot.

“Well if you’re the detective genius, why don’t you figure out who’s been offing people left and right?” Kylo demanded. “I’d love to hear the fruits of your deductive leaps.”

The engineer made a face, his eye catching the pizza boxes on the bed. “What’s that?”

“Pizza,” Kylo growled, unamused. The danger was still pulsing in his veins, palatably thick. “Try it.”

The engineer picked up a piece in one gloved hand, looking skeptical. Extending his tongue, he gave it a long, experimental lick.

“Try taking a bite, you kriffing genius,” Kylo grumbled, pushing over another box to the sniper, who was now looking openly interested. The older clone lifted a piece, sniffed it, then took a bite. Then another. Then he yanked the box out of Kylo’s hand and put it down next to himself on the couch, shifting around so he could guard it with his leg, throwing jealous looks at both of them.

“Fuck, okay, that’s good,” the engineer announced through a very full mouth. “Hells, I’m never going to be able to eat that amino hydrate crap ever again, this is so fucking _good._ Where’s little brother, he’d love this—“

Kylo frowned. “Isn’t he with you?”

The engineer and sniper both paused mid-bite. “No,” they offered together. “Wasn’t he with you?”

Kylo sincerely hated when they spoke together like that, but he was far too alarmed to care. “No. He left. I thought he went to go find you two.”

“We didn’t see him,” the engineer said, his eyes going a bit wide, panic rising like bile in his throat. They didn’t do well with separation, Kylo knew, and with all that was going on—

Kylo leapt to his feet, the danger in the Force propelling him out the door. The engineer yelled something after him and shuffled to follow but Kylo blocked him out, his pulse pounding in his head. This was all his fault. He charged down the myriad corridors, whirling around, getting lost—he couldn’t sense the poet nearby, he didn’t know where to look. Troopers and guests turned to look at him as he charged down the halls, panic driving him to wild turns and looking around, growling in frustration when again and again he felt nothing, nothing but that champagne glass, the drop of blood, the flash, the single shot—

The poet was in danger, of this he was certain. Someone was going to die, he knew that too with now-blinding certainty. Whether it was the poet was entirely—and solely—down to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the space pizza was worth it amirite
> 
> anyway see u next week! I apologize for the dumb "cliffhanger," I finished the update at abt 1 am lolloololol
> 
> luv ya lots <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT y’all, final chapter before the big reveal! Shit’s lit! Or more accurately, shit is gonna be lit!
> 
> Also, the fabulous [oochilka](http://oochilka.tumblr.com) drew the clones [here](http://oochilka.tumblr.com/post/147602335274/and-this-is-a-drawing-for-quadrumvirate-by)!!!! They're so precious go loooookkkkk

Kylo shoved the door aside, ignoring the door’s internal mechanism’s loud grinding, ready to lash out with the Force. He’d tracked the poet’s presence to that room and his anger was honed to a deadly edge; he felt ready to take on a small army. If they’d so much as hurt him—if they’d even touched him—

Sprinting headlong into the room, Kylo quickly realized four things. One, he was in Sienar’s fancy, booked office. Two, Sienar himself was there. And three, the only duress he could possibly attribute to the poet was the distressed, breathy moans he was making into Sienar’s desk. Four, now that he had realized one through three, Kylo discovered that he did not very much want to leave.

The poet’s slim hands gripped the far edge of the mahogany desk, head thrown back, red lips wide open and wet, his skinny body bent over Sienar’s desk and his narrow hips in Sienar’s hands. He was almost completely naked, as pale as Sienar’s stationary. Sienar himself was still wearing most of his suit, eyebrows knit in concentration, thrusting into the poet with admirable control. Kylo could feel him reveling in the act itself as much as his mounting orgasm, the thrill of satisfaction at being able to give the poet pleasure, to elicit any response he wanted from the poet’s body. He was in perfect control, the poet’s desperate panting as orchestrated and controlled as a board meeting, his skill consummate.

The poet’s eyes opened briefly and Kylo’s stomach jerked, embarrassment searing into him anew. He stumbled back; the poet’s gaze locked with his, holding him immobilized. The poet didn’t look away, keeping his gaze burning into Kylo’s skin as Sienar fucked him, even as he arched and writhed and moaned and clutched at the desk, forcing Kylo to watch.

Then with an agonized cry he came, collapsing shivering onto the desk. Sienar was not far behind, leaning forward with a deep sigh, pressing lazy kisses into the poet’s back. Kylo backed away swiftly and left, opening and closing the door silently, then leaning heavily against the wall.

Jealousy reared in him, white hot and searing. He shook with anger and barely-contained lust; he could feel himself half-hard just from those few seconds. He was disgusted with himself. He was deeply relieved the poet was alive. He wanted to march back into the office and take the poet again on Sienar’s desk. He was furious and unspeakably turned on that the poet had looked him in the eyes as if to say _jealous_?—a challenge, a brazen, wanton—

“Lord Ren. Can I help you?”

Kylo jerked upright, turning around. Sienar stood next to him, looking immaculate, not a cufflink out of place nor a hint of guilt or suggestion that he’d been fucking the poet senseless in his entire aspect. Kylo couldn’t believe his eyes. “I was looking for Master Verjel. I know he is here.”

Sienar nodded knowingly, not questioning how Kylo knew the poet’s location. “Ah, I see. Master Verjel and I were discussing tactics to manage the panic the Republic emissary has caused. Should I get him...?”

It was an awfully bold bluff, considering the poet was currently lying naked and fucked-out on his desk, in utterly no state for conversation. For a moment, Kylo was tempted to call that bluff, to see his perfect veneer of calm and civility slip. But then he said, “No. I can speak to him when you’re finished.”

Sienar inclined his head, a muted sense of relief rising within him. “We shouldn’t be but a few moments, Lord Ren.”

Then he about-faced and returned to his office.

The poet emerged a few minutes later, his uniform in disarray and a cheekily innocent smile on his face. “Did you miss me?”

Kylo grabbed him and pulled him into a crushing hug. For a few seconds the poet was too stunned to respond, surprise permeating his presence in the Force. “I thought you were next,” Kylo said into the poet’s hair. He was babbling, the truth spilling out of him without thought. “I thought you were dead and it was my fault—“

“You did?” the poet whispered. His arms circled Kylo’s waist. “You came to save my life?”

“I’d have killed for you,” Kylo muttered into the top of his head. It was true. He let go, feeling a bit embarrassed. He straightened his shirt, trying not to remember how the poet’s body had felt against his. “We should go find the others—“

“Where the fuck have you been?” the engineer’s voice demanded. Kylo groaned, turning to find a very irate pair of clones striding down the hall towards them. The engineer wore an angry scowl worthy of the general himself. “You just ran off—what the hell were you thinking—?”

“I thought he was in danger,” Kylo said lamely.

“And he well should!” The engineer snapped, grabbing the poet by the elbow and dragging him further down the hall, ignoring the younger brother’s cries of protest. “You may think I was created yesterday, you fucking idiot, but I wasn’t. What were you doing in Sienar’s office? _Alone_?”

The poet made a mutinous face but said nothing. The engineer gave him a shake like he was a rag doll. “ _Well?_ ”

“They were discussing how to deal with Tar’yn Borsk,” Kylo interrupted, hardly able to believe himself. “I accidentally burst in on the conversation.”

The engineer wasn’t convinced, but he let go of the poet’s uniform collar, pinning his little brother with a gimlet stare. “Is that true?”

Whatever the poet was going to say—and Kylo highly doubted it was very polite—was lost to posterity as a wet thump sounded from the other end of the hall. The poet stared at the engineer, the engineer at the poet. Then the four of them jumped into motion at once, starting off down the hall.

Dark blood trailed across the ornate carpet. Dimly, Kylo could hear rattling breathing. A weak voice called, _“Help...”_

He broke into a run, the others running after him, stopping in his tracks. A barely-alive Nautolan lay a few feet down an adjacent hall, his fancy suitcoat littered with bleeding stab marks. His dark eyes pleaded with them; his light green hand outstretched. “Help,” he moaned again, dark blood spilling down his chin.

The sniper dropped down next to him, whipping off his coat and pressing it against the Nautolan’s wounds as the engineer stooped to check his pulse. The Nautolan’s consciousness was fading fast—Kylo prepared himself to push into his memories—

The poet smacked his arm. “They’re here!” he exclaimed. “The killer—they just went down that hall, I saw them—“

“Go,” Kylo said, and they ran. In seconds he’d outstripped the poet, trying to push out his senses to feel for any presences nearby. Just when he’d slowed some, sure they’d lost them or the poet had imagined things, he heard a hit and a muffled cry and rounded the corner just in time to see a flicker of motion as someone sprinted away. Kylo charged after them, determination renewed—they were close, he could feel it.

Soon they hit a fork in the labyrinthine halls; Kylo looked between the two ways, left and right, indecisive—

“Lord Ren! Master Verjel! Never expected to see your honors in this wing.”

Kylo blinked, distracted. A lanky, balding, wispy blonde-haired man stood directly in front of him, a bright grin on his face.

“Professor Petyr Plumm,” the man beamed, extending a hand to shake. Kylo ignored it, breathing hard, trying to focus—which way, which way? He could barely feel people in either direction, no panic, no fear. “We spoke this morning. Have you been out to the weather deck? It’s so pleasant this time of evening. Stilll that spot of food poisoning bothering me, but I’m happy to say—“

“Out of my way,” Kylo growled. The poet was pressing at his arm; they’d go left.

“Oh my,” Plumm exclaimed. He was sweating, his wispy hair frizzled. He wiped at his brow with his sleeve. “That sounds dreadfully exciting, are you investigating the murders—?”

The poet knocked the professor aside with stunning caloussness, starting down the left hall. Kylo followed, ignoring Plumm’s indignant cries. Kylo could feel his blood pulsing, narrowing down with the hunt, ready to tear, incapacitate, kill if necessary—

The poet came to a dead halt moments before they came face to face with an airlock. Kylo nearly knocked into him, confounded. The killer had gone that way, he could feel it—had his instinct been wrong?

“They’re gone,” the poet breathed, his narrow shoulders rising and falling rapidly. He looked dejected, angry. “We lost them.”

 

 

 

Together they jogged back towards the engineer and the sniper and they dying Nautolan, winded and dispirited. Plumm had gone, blessedly, likely waddling off to nurse whatever perceived slight he felt. A stormtrooper was in his place, her sidearm was holstered but readily available, at constant discipline.

“Lock down this area,” Kylo ordered, drawing up short before her. “All squadrons on high alert. No one in or out of the area. The killer may be around.”

The stormtrooper straightened immediately. “Yes, sir!” she replied quickly, about-facing and already halfway down the hall, shouting out the order on their internal comm. Kylo didn’t pause to watch her go, already off again, pushing out his senses, feeling around for any presence—

Kylo’s commlink squawked and he called it to his hand with an angry huff. “What?”

“ _Lord Ren, it’s Jaymes. We have some more info—_ “

“Not now,” Kylo snapped. “There’s been another attack. The victim may live but we need a med evac _now._ ”

Jaymes swore. “ _Where’s the nearest airlock? We’ll do a dry dock—the MPD will have to facilitate the evac, Abraxii City doesn’t have that kind of air support.”_

Kylo cast around, trying to recall. “Airlock 247-alpha, on the west wing. There’s multiple stab wounds—we’re trying to stabilize him but there’s not much hope.”

“ _Got you. We’ll be there in twelve,”_ she said, then cut off the transmission.

Twenty-four minutes of chaos, shouted orders, flashing lights and overwhelming urgency and panic and _go go go_ later, the Nautolan was dead and the medics were trailing dejectedly back to their shuttle, the black-wrapped body on a hoverslide. Sienar had been called in to cordon the area off, but Kylo could already feel the sweeping sparks and waves of panic and fear across the vessel as the news spread: _there’s been another murder._ Could feel the engineer’s anger at having lost him, at the lack of progress on the killer.

“You tried, Lord Ren,” Jaymes said quietly. Even Abdul, his mouth tentacles uncharacteristically droopy, nodded his agreement. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

“If I’d been paying attention it wouldn’t have _happened,_ ” Kylo snarled. “If I’d been paying attention, I would have caught the killer.”

He’d known the death was going to happen. Felt it. He’d been so wrapped up in his personal affairs, with the poet, that he’d completely lost sight of the main objective: put a stop to the murders. Ensure the Order prevails. He shook his head; he could not think like this now. “You said you had some more information?”

Jaymes nodded. “Ros and I did a bit of digging, and I think we’ve found a pattern. We were pulling up passengers with known Black Sun connections—which among this lot is pretty much everyone—and noticed something strange. Our victims were among the few people _without_ known ties to the criminal underworld. The Nautolan, Audren Hare, didn’t either. I mean, that’s unusual. Rumor says even Leia Organa was courted by the Black Sun at some point.”

Kylo nodded. Leia _had_ been courted by Prince Xizor of the Black Sun crime syndicate, both literally and figuratively. What rumor failed to report was that she also kicked him in the balls. “So you think they have it in common? That it’s not a coincidence?”

“If the Black Sun’s involved, that changes the entire perspective of the investigation,” Abdul said. “The motive will no longer be personal—they could be using a proxy, anyone onboard. That makes them almost impossible to track, unless you—“

“—catch them in the act,” Kylo finished, not without bitterness. Abdul gave an apologetic grimace, but did not deny it. “Do we have a list of all the other guests without known ties? I’ll have them guarded. Not too obvious, but I’ll make sure the patrols know.”

Jaymes nodded. “I’ll get the list to you. Anything on Rahm’s file?”

“It’s coming,” Kylo promised. He was so tired. He felt filthy covered in the Nautolan’s blood, and blood hardly ever bothered him. The engineer and sniper were soaked in it up to the elbows, both looking equally burnt out. The poet leaned sleepily against the crook of the sniper’s arm. If anyone noticed their somewhat strange behavior, no one commented on it. He wanted nothing more than a good sanisteam and to sleep.

He checked his chrono. It was nearly past 0200; he yawned reflexively.

“Go get some sleep,” Jaymes said. “The MPD can handle the rest. We’ll pick up tomorrow morning.”

Kylo was going to argue—the last thing he wanted to do now was sleep, he wanted to _do_ something, take action—but he saw no reason to argue. The less the MPD meddled in his affairs, the better. “See you tomorrow.”

Both officers nodded tiredly, bracing themselves for the onslaught of guests demanding information. Kylo caught the engineer’s eye; he took the cue and disengaged from the chaos, taking his brothers with him. They trudged through the halls, returning to their quarters. The poet yawned, rubbing at his eyes.

Sienar was waiting for them. “You have to do something about this.” he said as soon as they’d entered. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking none too pleased. “I mean it. I’ve just come from a meeting with Tar’yn Borsk, who’s just implied that unless I want this entire ship full of highly influential people coming for my head, I will start dealing with the Resistance. This isn’t just my head anymore, it’s yours. If the board catches wind of this, they’ll force my hand. Cut me out if necessary. Do you understand that?”

The engineer gave him a cool look that couldn’t mask the spike of anxiety and frustration Kylo felt from him. “I understand the situation perfectly, Nieguen.”

“Do you?” Sienar snapped. “I took my oath to serve the Order. I meant every word. I’ve kept up my side of the bargain. KDY. Cutting out the Resistance, edging out the Republic. So now, when I need you—when the _Order_ needs you—you fail. I expected better from the General of the First Order.”

All three bristled visibly at the last. At the same time, Kylo felt a surge of guilt and fear—they’d let the general down, he’d be furious. Disappointed. There was nothing more they wanted than to fail him—to fail the Order.

Then the poet stepped forwards, his expression hard. “Borsk will be dealt with. Same with the killer.”

“Good,” Sienar said. His tone held no gentleness, even for the man he’d been fucking not an hour prior. “Make sure of it.”

Without another word he about-faced sharply and strode out the door.

For a moment, the room was tensely silent. Kylo could hear the faucet leaking lightly in the bathroom. Then the poet sat down and went to his datapad, powering it on. The engineer pulled off the general’s cap and tossed it aside, then shelled off the greatcoat and dumped it on the floor. Scowling, he pulled up one leg and attempted to pull off the boot, hobbling and wobbling. The polished boot did not budge, then finally slipped off and sent the engineer stumbling.

“ _Fuck!”_ the engineer shouted, hurling the boot to the floor. He looked livid, his long hair sticking up at odd angles, his sharp face red and his lips pulled back into a snarl. “Just _fuck!”_

“Control yourself,” the sniper snapped, glaring at his younger brother on the way to the fridge. “Screaming won’t get us anywhere.”

“Oh and drinking will?” the engineer countered, gesturing furiously. “Great point, _big brother,_ I’ll be sure to sit pretty while this mission goes to hell.”

Kylo backed away, ignored, yearning for the door. He’d always hated fights like this. Han and Leia had fought practically non-stop, always stooping to new creative lows with their snipes and insults. It had upset young, weak, pathetic Ben so much he’d cry, begging and screaming for them to stop. At first, it had worked. Embarassed, sheepish, and worried for him, they’d comfort him and pretend for as long as they could, then start anew. After a while, Ben’s tantrums did nothing. So instead he did nothing, drew into himself.

Just like he did now.

“Where are _you_ going?” the engineer demanded, mid-sentence, turning on Kylo when he was just inches from the door.

“Out,” Kylo said quickly, then slipped through the door and palmed it shut behind him just as the engineer shouted, _“The hell you are—“_

Kylo hurried away, holding the door shut with the Force, his pulse rushing in his ears. He was breathing hard; he felt hungry, thirsty, tired all at once, full of too much energy but not enough. The Force clung around him, murky and suffocating thick, pressing into him that same useless vision again and again and _again—_ Ben Solo pressed around him, a clingy child, begging Kylo Ren to save him from his childish nightmares—

“Out so late, Lord Ren?”

Kylo turned, then found himself face-to-face with the very last person in the galaxy he wanted to see, Leia Organa included. “Tar’yn,” he growled. “If you’re not out of my sight in thirty seconds, I will—“

“You’ll what?” Borsk asked, unimpressed. “Believe me, Lord Ren, if you value your precious Order at all, you’ll forget that little threat. While you and your little military...posse have been traipsing around trying to play detective, I’ve been getting very friendly with the rebel cells down here in Abraxii City. Did you know that you and your cohorts have quite a few enemies? It would be such a shame if you were to harm or kill me, they might just take that as a declaration of war—“

“I don’t fear any of your paltry rebellion,” Kylo snarled.

“No, of course you don’t,” Borsk reassured him, her tone mocking. “But I’ve also been talking to some very worried folks around the ship, too. Important folks. Folks your friend Nieguen Sienar very much wants to keep happy. They’re very afraid for their lives, you see. And they want some reassurance. And of course, they know you’d be more than happy to give it to them.”

Kylo cut her off with a curt wave of his hand. “Master Verjel is our diplomat, I’m sure he’d be happy to give the guests an update—or General Hux—“

“No, Lord Ren,” Borsk interrupted, her gem-like eyes hard. “I have assured our powerful mutual friends that you _personally_ will address the situation. Nothing to worry about, it’s only a few hundred people—plus a few thousand wait staff, cooks, technicians, all hanging onto your every word. I know just how much you love making speeches.”

Kylo swallowed, dumb primal terror fluttering weakly in his chest. He could picture it now. Himself, pinned up on a stage, stammering, stuttering, all those eyes burning into his skin—

Ben Solo had been petrified of crowds. Public speaking. It had ended his career in politics before it had even began, much to his mother’s disappointment. He’d been an awkward, sulking, stammering thing—even Kylo Ren had to wear a mask—

“Enjoy your evening, Lord Ren,” Borsk said with a hard, merciless smile. “I’ll be front row for your address. Tomorrow evening, 2200 sharp.” She gave him a cruel wink. “Make sure you don’t forget your cuecards.”

Then she stalked away, radiating vindictiveness and satisfaction in the Force.

As soon as she had rounded the corner Kylo felt himself fall back against the wall. His heart raced so quick he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had spontaneously burst from his ribcage, his hands were shaking, he felt so sick, as if he might vomit—

And he was angry. So angry at his own weakness, at _Ben Solo_ ’s weakness. He was Kylo Ren, damn it, he was Kylo Ren, he _was_ —

Kylo drew on his anger, feeling a sharp surge that tore away his panic, his terror, nothing but the swell of hatred and anger. He pushed off the wall and strode down the hall. He feared nothing. He was Kylo Ren. He was not subject to Ben Solo’s weaknesses. He was subject to no weakness. He was Kylo Ren—

“L—Lord Ren, sir!”

Kylo whirled around, a ferocious snarl pulling at his lips. The blonde man standing behind him stumbled back a full meter, clutching at his bizarre wireframe glasses. “I—I’m very sorry to disturb you, my lord but—I think I may have something—to help you,” the technician stammered, looking at once terrified and flustered.

Kylo’s terrible high of emotions ebbed, draining down into a simmering fury. “You do.”

The technician nodded, cartoonishly eager. He fumbled in his garish vest for a few seconds, then withdrew clunky old datatapes. “I—It’s just some footage—from the cameras,” he stammered out, pushing the tapes towards him.

Kylo shook his head. “Sienar already gave us that.”

The technician’s eyes widened briefly in terror. Glancing around skittishly, his blonde mop of curls shaking, he leaned in close and whispered, “Forgive me, Lord Ren, but Master Sienar did not give you everything.”

Kylo frowned, his stomach dropping a few centimetres. “He didn’t?”

The technician nodded fearfully, his brown eyes shining with intensity. “The cameras he said were down—they weren’t, my lord. He ordered the data destroyed. These tapes themselves are old, but I managed to get a copy of the footage before it was deleted.”

Kylo closed his hands around the tapes, feeling them nearly slip through his fingers. The technicians hands were cool, clammy, trembling slightly. “Why are you helping me?”  
  
The technician blinked. “Because you’re Kylo Ren,” he whispered, then added, “You—you said you’re going to finish what Darth Vader started. Eradicate the rebel scum. I believe you will.”

Kylo could not recall saying anything like this, but assumed the Order’s propaganda machine had spoken for him. It wasn’t far off the mark, but he would have to have words with the poet about putting words into his mouth. The technician—Matt—possessed such utterly singular confidence in him, belief so powerful it could move stars. He felt bolstered, reinvigorated. Sienar was lying. He had new data. A solution would present itself.

“Thank you,” Kylo said, and meant it.

Matt honest to rights blushed, all the way down to the roots of his bright blonde hair. “No, th-thank you, Lord Ren.” He dropped his eyes bashfully, then muttered to his boots, “May I have your autograph?”

Kylo blinked. Autograph? “Uh, sure.”

Matt blushed harder and procured a flimsi and stylus with stunning alacrity. Kylo accepted them, hesitantly scrawling out his signature. It looked childish and awkward but Matt beamed as if he’d granted him a work of art, then tucked the flimsi hastily into his vest. “Thank you, Lord Ren,” he said breathlessly. “If you ever need anything else, just ask.”

Kylo nodded, absently. There was something...naggingly familiar about Matt’s features, his sharp nose and dark eyes. “Good night, technician. Thank you again.”

Matt beamed.

 

 

Kylo arrived at the banquet to find Nieguen Sienar nowhere in sight, and the poet looking very uncomfortable alongside a very chatty Professor Petyr Plumm.

“Lord Ren,” the poet said, sounding relieved as Kylo approached. “Meet Professor Plumm. He was just discussing with me the merits of an authoritarian government.”

“Ah, Lord Ren,” the professor said, grabbing Kylo’s hand and shaking it. “We met before.”

“We did,” Kylo replied, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. It was hard to accept the idea of food poisoning man having any serious discourse, professor or no. “May I steal Master Verjel for a moment?”

“Of course,” Plumm beamed, perfectly sycophantic. “Master Verjel and I had just come to an understanding. I won’t keep you.”

The poet took Kylo’s arm, exuding gratitude, letting Kylo lead him far away from earshot. “Where are we going?” he asked, as they exited the main hall. “The room is that way—“

“Just trust me,” Kylo said, leading him on. The poet followed gamely, his stressed frown gradually melting into a soft, amused half-smile. Kylo felt giddy, boyish—the whole thing was self-indulgent, but in the face of disaster, it didn’t seem to high a crime.

Kylo waved the door open, ushering the poet through, smiling to himself as the poet gasped, looking around in wonderment. A long pool stretched across the room, it’s softly lit and gently waving waters throwing the only light onto the tiled walls and ceiling, the fantastic murals of Mon Calamari epic poetry, dominated by seas of navy blue. Even the floors were tiled.

“Is that....water?” the poet asked breathlessly, eyes wide and expression awed. “All of it? What’s it for?”

Had he never seen a pool before? Kylo had mainly brought him here for the tiling. “You swim in it, generally.”

The poet stared at him, then said a bit sadly, “I can’t swim.”

“I can,” Kylo told him. “Do you want to try?”

The poet nodded, eyeing him through his long, translucent eyelashes. Then his small hands went to his collar, unbuttoning it slowly. (Kylo barely scraped together the mental presence to nudge the cameras aside and trigger the tinting of the windows). Once his tunic was off, revealing creamy skin that had never seen sunlight, he stooped to remove his boots, then removed his pants and knelt down by the poolside to eye the water suspiciously, leaning over so far he was liable to fall in. His long hair fell around his face and dipped the tips into the water.

Kylo shucked off his shirt and pants rather quickly, kicking off his boots. The air was heated to the perfect temperature—he imagined the water had been done likewise. He kneeled next to the poet, holding his shoulder in case he toppled.

Then the poet put his arms around Kylo’s neck and let Kylo pick him up and carry him to the tiled steps. Kylo took them one at a time, the lukewarm water feeling wonderful and cooling on his toes. As he walked deeper in, the poet’s grip tightened.

“Is it cold?” he whispered urgently, pressing his head into Kylo’s shoulder.

“It’s fine,” Kylo assured him, pausing to let him dip his feet in. His approval thus met, Kylo waded into the water in earnest, plunging them both in. The poet let out a hysterical shriek and nearly let go of Kylo’s neck, kicking rather violently.

“It’s fine!” Kylo said again, holding him tight. “I’m tall enough to stand. So are you. You’re not going to drown.”

Very shakily, the poet replied, “It only takes two inches of liquid to drown...”

“I won’t _let_ you drown,” Kylo told him firmly. “Now would you feel better having your feet on solid ground? I can let you down.”

The poet nodded. Kylo lowered his legs to the floor, holding his waist so he could find his footing. After that the poet looked much less panicked, though he made no move to let go of Kylo’s neck.

“I’ve always wanted to have sex in a pool,” he whispered, looking slightly awestruck at how the water threw shifting light on Kylo’s face. “I know people do it because I saw it once in a video. Big brother banned me from the HoloNet for a week.”

Kylo frowned, the prospect of pool sex undeniably tantalizing. Not a new concept—if there was anything Poe Dameron loved nearly as much as flying, it was coming up with new and strange locations to have sex in. Leia’s kitchen floors saw some shit. He was especially impressed with Ben’s Jedi breath exercises—he’d lasted almost three minutes in the pool. “A week? That sounds rather punitive.”

The poet blushed slightly. “I was seven.”

“Ah.”

The poet pulled him towards the pool’s wall until his back was pressed against it, allowing Kylo to pin him in place, pressing his torso against him so that the poet could bring his legs up around Kylo’s waist. Kylo ran his hands down his sides, marveling at his softness, how he looked even smaller in water. Then the poet kissed him, teasing at Kylo’s lips with his tongue, as Kylo carefully pushed him open, letting him sigh into his mouth and tilt his head back so Kylo could trail kisses down his neck.

Then Kylo took his hips and pushed in gently, rocking his hips in slow, lazy thrusts. The poet sighed, contented, his eyes falling closed and his lips parting, pink creeping over his cheekbones and down his pale chest. Kylo felt the slow build of his pleasure with satisfaction, from a pleasing fullness to a panting need to a loud, almost triumphant cry—

Kylo came almost simultaneously, the poet’s orgasm triggering his own and he leaned into the wall, feeling the water lap between them, the rapid rise and fall of the poet’s chest. He reached up and stroked the poet’s hair clumsily, dampening it with water, running his thumb over the poet’s cheek.

Then they walked towards the steps, dripping and shivering slightly as the emerged from the water. Kylo called a stack of fluffy, white towels towards them; the poet laughed and accepted one as it landed in his arms. Within minutes they were dry, struggling into their clothes and feeling decidedly less sexy than they had moments prior.

“This didn’t happen,” the poet warned as they drew up before the door to their quarters. “Brother’s in a horrible mood, and he hates it when other people have fun—oh.”

The last was as the door opened, revealing the engineer and the sniper engaged in what could only be described as hatefucking. Both were still clothed, the engineer even still wearing the general’s cap, the engineer on all fours and cursing with great invention—ostensibly at the sniper—while the sniper fucked him with almost reckless abandon.

“Are they—should we—“ Kylo stammered, caught a bit off balance.

The poet shrugged. “They always end up doing it. It’s how they work out their differences.”

Kylo nodded, not understanding at all. The poet left him to find his datapad, stripping off his uniform as he went. Kylo took the hint and retreated to a bedroom, letting the door shut behind him. His own datapad lay on the bed—he went to it, yawning, and powered it on.

Nothing. Not even from the general, who should have forwarded him Rahm’s fucking file. Kylo tossed it aside, frowning as a plainly wrapped parcel caught his eye. Picking it up, he removed the brown string and pushed the box open.

A plain blade sat inside, no bigger than his palm. Kylo lifted it to inspect it, holding it up to the light.  
  
His stomach dropped. Scratched into the blade in a crude, messy hand, was the name _Alden Verjel._

Kylo dropped the blade back into the box, putting it down on the beside table, then grabbing it again and kicking it under the bed. He couldn’t possibly tell the poet—he seemed afraid enough already, worried and stressed as the rest of them. Besides, he already had to ask for him to write an address for him to give for Borsk—the thought alone made his skin crawl.

But someone wanted him dead. And wanted him to know it. It was an obvious deviation from the killer’s past operation—as far as the knew. Jaymes and Abdul had searched the victims’ quarters and hadn’t seen anything of the like.

Unless the poet knew something. Knew something no one else did, something important that was worth killing—or at least scaring—him for. He had seen Rahm just before his death, and gone to the bathroom just around the time of the murder—perhaps he had seen something? After all, he’d recognized the killer and chased them down the hall—

His alibis for all the murders but Rahm’s was impeccable, and even then it wasn't chronologically possible that he could have lured Rahm, killed him, and dragged him to an airlock halfway across the ship in the fifteen or so minutes he had been gone, so Kylo couldn’t imagine how he was the killer. But had he seen something? Entirely possible. Maybe he’d been to afraid to share it, or unsure of its value.

Kylo returned to the main room, finding the poet reclining on the bed, wearing the silky slip, his new favorite garment, it seemed, eyes fixed on his datapad. The engineer and the sniper, for their part, were sprawled next to him in a haze of post-coital bliss, arms wrapped around each other and snuggled close.

“Borsk is expecting me to update the guests on the investigation,” he said, and the poet looked up. “I don’t suppose, you could, uh, write something...?”

The poet sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have to. I don’t trust a word that comes out of your mouth. No offense,” he added, as Kylo took mild exception to that. “But I don’t really trust a man that wears a mask ninety percent of the time with oration. Does it have to be you? One of us could give it—“

“It has to be me,” Kylo said, but did not explain further, even to the poet’s questioning gaze. “One more thing. That evening, the first evening, when you left for the bathroom, did you see anything? The night Rahm died.”

The poet frowned, shifting against the pillows behind him. “See anything?”

“Yeah. Rahm was probably killed around that time. Did you see him again? See him leave with anyone? Anyone get him alone?”

The poet shook his head, very quickly. “No. Nothing. I didn’t even see Rahm.”

Kylo considered probing further, and more invasively, with the Force, but wasn’t sure such an invasion of his thoughts and memories was a good idea. “Okay. Thought I’d ask. Nothing after that?”

“Other than just now?” The poet shook his head again. “I’m afraid not. Why?”

“Just asking,” Kylo said quickly, then gave him a quick smile. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” the poet replied, sounding troubled. As soon as Kylo had retreated to a bedroom, he heard the three of them murmuring quietly amongst themselves. He strained to hear, but could not quite make out what they said through the wall.

Finally, they fell silent. Kylo drifted off to a fitful, troubled sleep.

 

 

 

The next morning Kylo awoke to blinding sunlight in his eyes and a tugging sensation on his ankles. He opened his eyes just in time to get a sharp jab of light to the eyes before he fell off the bed completely, hitting the floor with a mighty _thump._

“Morning,” the sniper’s voice said shortly, then Kylo saw his polished boots pass by his eyes and out the door.

“Bastard,” Kylo grumbled and pulled himself upright, still smarting from the indignation of being pulled from his own bed. He checked his chrono and yelped, jolting to his feet and pulling on the nearest set of clothes and rushing out to the main room.

The poet was sitting in his brother’s lap, chewing despondently on an egg sandwich. He looked worried, anxious, as if he had barely slept. The sniper rubbed gently at his back; the poet did not even acknowledge the contact.

“I finished your address,” the poet said once he caught sight of Kylo. “It’s not incredible—I don’t even know the full extent of what the MPD is doing, so it’s mostly platitudes. But you’re a military man, they may excuse you.”

Kylo frowned, looking around and extending his senses, feeling for the engineer. He found nothing. “Where is he?”

The poet’s gloom deepened. “With Professor Plumm,” he said, looking anxious. “Something about drumming up political support on Abraxis. Apparently he’s got connections. Something like that.”

‘Something like that’ hardly seemed like something the Order’s propaganda mastermind would say about any political venture, but Kylo did not comment. The poet held out a sandwich identical to his own, Kylo took it. “Well, as long as he’s coming back soon,” Kylo muttered. “If I can swing for him to give the address, not me, it’ll be a vast improvement. Trust me.”

“He hates speeches,” the poet said, but offered nothing further. Kylo took a tentative bite of the egg sandwich, and was pleasantly surprised. He took another, chewing thoughtfully.

Then with a jolt he remembered the technician’s smuggled footage, still in his uniform pocket from the night before. Snatching up another egg, Kylo hastily excused himself and jumped up from the bed, rushing into the bedroom. Picking up his datapad and his discarded tunic from the floor, he rifled urgently through the pockets before locating the tapes with a relieved sigh.

The chips were old, but not too old to be read by the datapad. Kylo fed them in carefully, waited for the pad to recognize them and read the footage, then opened the first video.

It was the first set of footage Sienar had given them, the down camera that had captured his and the engineer and sniper’s alibi. Kylo skipped through the bulk of it, seeing nothing of interest, then popped out the chip and inserted a new one. The pad computed for a second, then brought up the new video. It was of empty hall; Kylo skipped forward again, then again—

Kylo stopped, his breath catching in his chest. Rowena Rance, the Core Workers Union rep and second victim, stood in the camera’s view, strolling back and forth, her commlink pressed to her ear. Then the camera panned away, on its pre-programmed sweep, to uninhabited hall. Kylo swore, his heart fluttering in his chest, fast-forwarding—

The camera panned back and Rance was dead, her dark hair fanned out around her as dark blood spread like a halo—

Kylo’s heart stopped.

In front of her, just visible at the edge of the frame, was the shoulder and head of a familiar, shadowy figure. Kylo could see only a silhouette, but he instantly _knew_.

He threw down the datapad and tossed aside the remains of his sandwich and scrambled off the bed, grabbing his uniform and throwing it on, hobbling into his boots as he stumbled out the door. It was so _obvious,_ it had been staring him in the face—how had he not seen it—?

“I know who the killer is,” he gasped at the poet and sniper’s wide-eyed, concerned faces. “We have to go. _Now._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect the update next Monday, but depending on how RL behaves it may be up to a week late, the last chapter will be significantly longer. As in pretty much three chapters in one, I may break it up for sanity’s sake? Anyway basically weekly update schedule might take a hit here ya feel
> 
> But for now, I wanna hear ur theories! go wild! lemme know what u think! do keep in mind you don’t actually have ALL the relevant information yet so I understand it’s all speculation but still I’m burnin with curiosity here hit me up


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright let’s just hold hands and pretend this update didn’t take 2 months for me to write...lmao

“You can’t go out now!” the poet cried, chasing after Kylo while trying to pull on a pair of sweatpants. “You’ve got to make the address, if you don’t make it back in time no one else can—“

Kylo spun around and grabbed the poet by the shoulders, shaking him perhaps a bit too violently. “Your brother is in danger,” he snapped. “You’re in danger. We’re all in danger. Tar’yn Borsk and all the people on this ship can go space themselves.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the poet said obstinately, crossing his arms over his chest. Kylo could tell he was lying— _how_ and _why_ was not yet clear, but Kylo knew he was.

“I don’t believe you people,” Kylo snarled. “Your brother. Is in danger. I don’t know how much more clearly I have to say this. We must find him before it’s too late. Did you really believe he’s on some joyride with the Professor?

The sniper placed a hand on the poet’s shoulder. Kylo noticed he was, for the first time on the ship, armed, a blaster slung around his hips and a knife in his boot. “He’s right. We’ve got to act now.”

“Fine,” the poet said, looking unconvinced. “But you’ve got to do as I say—the situation is more delicate than—“

“Good,” Kylo said, heading for the door. “You two prepare to go to Abraxii City. That means disguises. Find something. I’m going to take care of the speech.”

 

 

Fifteen very stressful minutes later, Matt was fidgeting in the main Banquet hall, Kylo’s datapad in his hands and wearing Kylo’s uniform. It turned out that, for reasons Kylo did not particularly want to fathom, Matt owned a raven-haired wig that was an impressive facsimile of his own hair. In the uniform, and with the wig, it was uncannily like looking in a mirror.

“I—I just say the speech? What’s written here?” Matt whispered, looking very panic-stricken.  
  
Kylo nodded, ducking deeper into his hood as a server passed by. “A really bitchy Bothan will probably come and talk to you, just ignore her. When you’re ushered up there, just read exactly what’s on that page. I’ll probably be back by then. If not, don’t worry about anything, just read it and leave.”

Matt nodded, clearly unconvinced. “I won’t fail you, Lord Ren.”

Kylo clapped his shoulder, a bit awkwardly. It was a thing he’d seen Han Solo do, he never understood why. “I know. That’s why I picked you. The Order is in your debt.”

Matt beamed again, and expression Kylo hadn’t seen on his own face in....a very long time. Giving him another what he hoped was an encouraging pat, Kylo grabbed a glass of water from the nearby table—noting with satisfaction it was at a place reserved for _Sienar, N.—_ and drained it before hurrying back to the poet and the sniper.

 

 

 

“Well?” the poet said when Kylo arrived. “Do you have it taken care of, or is this going to be another disaster for me to mitigate?”

Whatever response his mind formed evaporated at the sight of the poet’s ‘disguise.’ A tiny, white, high-waisted vinyl skirt, tall white boots of the same material, and a flashy white top that covered...approximately none of him. “Um,” Kylo said. “The point of a...disguise is generally to not...stand out.”

Abruptly the poet’s posture changed and he slouched against the sniper’s arm, chewing obnoxiously at a piece of chewing gum. “Come on, _dahrling_ , I thought you said this was a hustle,” he drawled in a surprisingly canny gutter accent and gave Kylo a saucy wink, dragging his older brother along in his wake as he made for the door.

The sniper exchanged looks with Kylo on his way out, tugged along by the poet’s tight grip on his sleeve. Kylo pressed forward, overtaking the poet’s aggressive but mincing steps in his towering heels. He didn’t like him when he was this tall.

“We’ll steal a shuttle,” he said in an undertone. “They’re lightly guarded at best, we can stealth in and—“

“Don’t be silly,” the poet said, still in his gutter persona. “I already talked with Nieguen. The last shuttle in the bay is ours.”

Kylo grit his teeth. “About that. Just how well _do_ you know Sienar—?”

“Ah. Well, it’s his credentials, anyway.” In a normal voice he said, “How close do you need to be to find him? Abraxii City is huge—we don’t have time to traipse all over the underworld.”

Kylo bit his lip. With his Knights around him, he could probably locate the engineer from here, maybe even pinpoint his location to satellite position—one of the Knights was very talented with numbers and geopositioning. They had a maddening habit of using it only as a hobby, however, so more than once he’d had to call the _Finalizer_ to translate. Alone, he could hardly hope to penetrate the mass of consciousness—depending on the place, and the height of the surrounding emotions, he might not be able to feel the engineer around even if he was sitting across from him.

The poet’s eyebrows raised at his silence. “That good, huh?”

Kylo took offense at that, growing defensive. “It depends. Pretty far.” He hoped.    

“No need,” the sniper said, holding up the poet’s datapad. A message had popped up, displaying a set of coordinates, nothing else, from an untraceable sender.

Which proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was a trap. Kylo felt his anxiety spike to a dizzying high: with no weapons and what amounted to two civilians to protect, any extraction could be very messy. And complicated. “Where do the coordinates lead?”

The sniper was silent a moment, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes before replying, “Deep in the industrial sector.”

“A warehouse,” Kylo said automatically. “Old, abandoned. Crumbling duracrete, old rusted alloys, that sort of thing.” He shut his eyes, straining to see more. Dark shadows, a long, high catwalk—

A blaster bolt flashed blindingly before his eyes and Kylo staggered, a wave of vertigo washing through him in the aftermath. A sharp pang drove itself through his stomach; Kylo folded, his knees crashing into his chin, a harsh gasp escaping his mouth.

The poet’s confused, somewhat concerned eyes appeared before him, driving the vision away. “Lord Ren? Is something wrong?”

“Run,” Kylo said, jolting off the ground and grabbing the poet’s small hand, pulling him after him. The poet staggered along, worry and fear rolling off him in waves. The terrible anxiety the Huxes experienced whenever one was away from the others was nauseatingly strong, crashing through Kylo’s skull like poison gas.

Kylo could feel his eyes watering as the sniper pushed past him into the shuttle, throwing himself into the pilot’s seat, recklessly neglecting to strap on his crash webbing. The poet hovered behind him, a distressingly attractive figure—Kylo was not sure whether he intended to seduce the killer, or what.

After a few seconds the ship lifted off the deck. Chiming alarms blared through the hangar; gazing idly out the viewport, Kylo could see uniformed figures running towards them, arms waving wildly.

The sniper punched the sublights and the shuttle shot forwards, sending the figures scattering and the poet skittering.

“How do you want to approach?” the sniper called to Kylo, glancing over his shoulder as he wove dizzyingly through the airtraffic. “Seeing as this is a trap.”

Kylo attempted a grin that came off more as a snarl. “The only way to approach a trap. Head on.”

The sniper gave a surprisingly nonchalant shrug, sending the ship into a stomach-turning drop, zipping into a slim, dark tunnel and out again in instants. Kylo clutched onto the nearest surface, wincing sympathetically as the poet hit the deck hard, slipping down the open cabin. It could have been his ears, but Kylo could have sworn he heard MPD sirens in the distance.

The sniper grinned, and his gloved fingers skated over the command console. In an instant the ship _dropped,_ swooping downwards at a horrible acceleration that felt terrifyingly like gravitational freefall.

“ _Are you insane_ —?” Kylo yelled, but his voice was drowned out by the whine of the auxiliary engines kicking in, trying to supply power to the plummeting ship.  
  
The sniper swore and without warning the ship flickered back to life, the lights and engines screaming to life just a second before he threw the ship into a sharp climb. Kylo managed to grab the poet’s arm as he tumbled backwards; Kylo could hear the angry klaxons blaring around them as warning shots sizzled across their bow and stern—there were new MPD ships, and they meant business.

Kylo looked up just in time to see the sniper leap up from the pilot’s seat. His eyes widened; a wall of crumbling durasteel was looming ever close in the viewport—

Kylo’s had tore from its grip on his handhold and he, the poet, and the sniper were all jerked off the deck. The poet screamed; there was a terrible _CRASH_ before Kylo’s shoulder connected with the ship’s inner hull with punishing force.

The sniper pushed himself to his feet, looking very self-satisfied. To Kylo’s furious glare, he said, “You said head-on.”

“Fuck you,” the poet mumbled, clutching at his bleeding nose. Even Kylo felt a bit shaken, disentangling himself from the poet’s long (warm and bare) limbs. As soon as he was on his feet he felt himself tip over, leaning heavily against the damaged boarding ramp.

The sniper picked up his brother by the armpits and hauled him onto his feet. The poet was trembling slightly, his slender legs scrabbling slightly for purchase, still clutching at his bloodied nose. Looking disgustingly unruffled, the sniper palmed the boarding ramp release, guiding the poet down and looking around cautiously with his sharp eyes.

Kylo stumbled down after them, his ears ringing almost deafeningly. His vision slurred slightly; he must have hit his head much harder than he recalled.

They were in the bowels of some massive warehouse, tall and dark and crumbling, with a myriad of mesh catwalks strung across the substructure. The air was musty, tangy with rust. Danger fuzzed faintly on the edges of his consciousness. The engineer was nowhere in sight.

“Gentlemen. How kind of you to join us.”

Kylo, the sniper, and the poet whipped around, seeking out the source of the voice. The sniper found them first, eyes narrowing in a sharp glare of dislike. The poet swallowed, his defined Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. Kylo’s vision swam, his head throbbing painfully.

The killer’s soft hand shifted around the blaster held to the engineer’s temple, as if the weapon were sweaty. The sniper’s gloved hand went immediately to his blaster, but did not draw. Kylo could feel his indecision, his mind trying to rapidly weigh the risks, preparing for a split-second decision.

“Do you have it?” the killer demanded. Their voice was thick and trembling slightly with fear, brazen with it.

The poet shook his head. “No.”

Professor Petyr Plumm took a threatening step forward, tipping the creaking chair the engineer was bound to slightly closer to the edge of the catwalk. Kylo reached out in the Force, ready to catch either of them if they fell. The professor’s grip on the blaster was shaking—he was liable to kill them both. Kylo wasn’t even sure where he’d gotten it, it was an ancient model, from before the Rebellion.

“No?” he repeated. “Did you forget our deal, you mindless test-tube spawn?”

“There was no deal,” the poet rejoined, his voice strained as his brother teetered dangerously on the catwalk’s flimsy edge. “Surrender your weapon and submit to justice.”

Kylo frowned, shock and surprise hitting him like a wall. “You know?” he stammered, looking between the poet and the professor. Plumm knew about the clones—the poet knew about Plumm’s killings— _why had he lied—?_

“I know things that would shock through even your thick skull, boy,” Plumm snapped, and Kylo felt his teeth grind at the insult. The sniper and the poet’s eyes flicked in synchronization between him and the professor.

To the poet, Plumm said, “You know what I know, and you know what I want. I have your precious general—if he even is any general,” he added, knocking the blaster against the engineer’s skull. With every word and passing moment he grew more confident, more bold. “I suggest you make it happen.”

The poet’s stance tightened noticeably, his eyes narrowing. To Kylo’s eye he looked faintly ridiculous issuing orders dressed like a two-credit whore, but maybe Kylo was just a prude. “Surrender now and the Order may yet be merciful.”

Plumm’s mouth twisted up into an ugly smile. “Perhaps you don’t understand. I’m not afraid of you or your threats. I killed those people under your noses—one more, by now.” His smile took on a smeared, gloating edge. “Neiguen Sienar is dead. I killed him. Just like I’ll kill your precious ‘ _brother’_ if you don’t _do as we agreed_ and bring me assurance of full pardon.”

Kylo stared at the poet’s furious, twisting face in confusion. As they had agreed? Had he already ransomed the engineer, or was there something else he was holding over them? The threat of revealing their secret, perhaps, to tell the world about General Hux’s personal clone army? And Sienar—he wasn’t dead, he was alive when Kylo left, certainly was the last Plumm would have been on the ship—unless—

A crushing, agonizing weight dropped over Kylo’s chest and he felt himself double over, clutching at his ribs. His vision was slurring even more now, he could barely see straight—danger pulsed through his veins, searing like chemical fire—

Sienar’s glass had been poisoned. And Kylo, by pure, dumb happenstance, had drank it.

Kylo forced down a rising swell of panic, grasped desperately at the Force, pulling himself into focus. The sniper’s blaster was drawn in his hands, a common handgun—with as close as the professor was pressed to the engineer’s side, the sniper was just as likely to hit his brother was he was to hit Plumm.

“Do it!” the poet yelled, his eyes blazing into the sniper’s. “Do it now!”  
  
”No!” Kylo cried, and the sniper turned. “You can’t—you’ll hit—“

“I’ll do it,” Plumm called down, jabbing his blaster against the engineer’s skull. Kylo could dimly feel the engineer’s sharp anger, the terror of dangling up so high, about to tip over to a long fall and a swift death. Plumm’s confidence, artificial at best, was thinning rapidly. “I’ll do it!”

“No, don’t,” Kylo gasped, blinking rapidly to focus his eyes. He had to keep Plumm talking, keep him from shooting, keep him unafraid— “I still don’t understand. Why did you kill them? You have no motive—I just want to understand—“

Plumm shook his head rapidly, eyeing the sniper’s blaster fearfully. He was getting scared now, Kylo could feel it, scared and twitchy—he was obviously out of his realm, terrified and desperate—it was a miracle he’d lasted this long as it was. If Kylo hadn’t been such a fool he would have seen it sooner. “It was gambling debts,” he said, almost babbling. “Debts. The Black Sun. I owed them. So much. They called it in. Wanted Rance and Hare—and Sienar himself—dead. I didn’t want to do it but they made me, you have to understand—I won’t do anything after this, you have to understand—“

“I don’t want to hear it,” the poet said coldly, his gaze flickering worriedly towards Kylo. “Surrender or get shot, I don’t care which.”

Kylo could barely think straight, the pain was so blinding. He could barely stand, either, so dizzyingly weak. “I don’t understand. Why would the Black Sun want Rahm—“

“It wasn’t me!” Plumm shouted, wild now. He brandished the blaster widely, snapping it back towards the engineer’s head. The engineer flinched away, now actively fearing for his life. Either way, he was probably going to end up dead. “It wasn’t me, Lord Ren, you have to believe me—I didn’t kill Corsair Rahm—“

A single shot rang out and Plumm crumpled, the blaster tipping out of his hand and crashing to the duracrete floor far below with a tinny clatter. Kylo cried out wordlessly, half in pain and half in anger—Plumm would have been useful, to interview further, to lay the blame on and assuage the terrified passengers.

The professor gave one last, spiteful heave and the precariously balanced chair toppled, sending the engineer into freefall in a graceful arc. Dimly, Kylo could hear the poet scream, feel the sniper’s horror, his own oddly muted terror—

He reached into the Force and poured himself into halting the engineer’s descent. It did nothing. The chair and the bound clone, still in his general’s uniform, kept plummeting, dizzyingly near the hard duracrete.

Ben Solo could not have stopped his fall. Neither should have Kylo Ren, dying of some unknown poison and unable to stand.

The chair split violently into pieces upon impact. Kylo could just make out the engineer’s still form on the floor, his brothers huddled over him. Whether he was alive or dead, Kylo could not tell. But he could feel his own lungs seizing, his own body curling reflexively as his systems started to go numb as his heart pounded furiously against his ribs—

A spike of fear drove through him and Kylo clawed furiously at the broken duracrete, raking his nails jarringly. He didn’t want to die, not in some dumb warehouse of some idiot’s poison on some tiny, insignificant world.

A cool hand landed on his shoulder and Kylo jerked around. The sniper knelt beside him, his expression tight.

“You’ve been poisoned,” he said calmly, his voice filtering oddly through Kylo’s hazy mind as if he were speaking from underwater. His grip was firm, grounding Kylo back to reality. “You need to relax. Keep your heart rate down.”

“Is he—?” Kylo gasped. His lungs were empty. They burned as if with smoke. If he could just focus enough to meditate, he could stop the poison’s raging path through his body.

“He’s fine,” the sniper said. “A broken arm and bruised ribs.”

Relief swept through Kylo like anesthetic. The Huxes would have been inconsolable at the death of their brother. The general would have had his guts as garters. And—this surprised even him—he would have been upset, too.

Kylo felt his head loll to the side, his eyes wandering of their own accord, his eyelids falling shut. The sniper gave him a none-too-gentle slap, jolting him awake. Two more pairs of wide, worried eyes appeared above him, the engineer’s copper hair and pale face splattered in blood. It was a good look for him, Kylo decided.

The poet gave him a frantic shake, calling his name; Kylo groaned. The sniper slapped his little brother’s hands away with a reproving glare.

“I can walk,” Kylo slurred, pushing himself off the floor and sluggishly pulling his legs under him so he could stand. With the poet’s and sniper’s help, he pushed himself upright. Some meters away Plumm’s still body lay, covered in rivulets of dark blood. His eyes were wide open in surprise. Kylo felt no pity.

“We should hurry,” the poet said at the same time the sniper said, “The MPD are coming.”

They were right. In the distance, Kylo could faintly hear the blare of MPD sirens. Being caught with Plumm’s body, especially with Tar’yn Borsk having whipped the ship into such a frenzy, could be disastrous.

Within minutes, the engineer had talked his brothers through hotwiring someone’s speeder, Kylo had pushed back the poison’s effects to a dull feral agony, and the engineer had the gall to complain that his _arm_ hurt.

“Say that again,” Kylo ground out through a haze of pain as the sniper keyed the ignition, “And I’ll rip your arm _off._ ”

“Asshole,” the engineer muttered, pulling the general’s greatcoat more tightly around his shoulders, but did not try to complain again.

“What now?” the poet asked, his voice hushed. His wide eyes were shadowed with fearfulness, his narrow shoulders hunched. “The MPD will find Plumm, it’s just a matter of time—“

“Matt,” Kylo gasped aloud, making the other three turn and frown. It had to be nearly 1000—Tar’yn would force Matt to make Kylo’s speech. “We have to get back to the ship now, I’ve got to read that address—“

“Absolutely not,” the poet said, eying Kylo suspiciously as he flopped pathetically around the speeder’s orange synthleather back seat. “Not while you’re...you’re....” he struggled for a word that adequately described Kylo’s current condition, gesturing vaguely around his vicinity, “Dying.”

“I can’t just—I’ve gotta,” Kylo slurred, grabbing onto the back of the seat and inadvertently the sniper’s shoulder with it.

“No. I’ll do it.” The poet gave him a sweet smile, still clinging fondly to the engineer’s chest. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

“You might wanna, uh, change,” the engineer said, his good hand rather far up his brother’s small skirt. The poet nuzzled against him, stroking his brother’s hair and surreptitiously licking the thin blood off his fingers.

Kylo scowled. _Don’t mind me, I’m only dying._

 

 

“Lord Ren,” Jaymes said as soon as he’d entered the hall and sat down heavily on the nearest chair, the engineer—now clean and the general’s uniform arranged into a semblance of neatness—following suit, wearing a scowl worthy of his brother. She was wearing a suspicious frown—no doubt they’d found Plumm—did she know—? “Where have you been? Ros and I have been trying to raise you—another passenger has been found dead, we’re not sure if it’s the same killer—“

Kylo almost groaned aloud. He had no energy for pretending. But he had no choice. “You did?”

Jaymes nodded, her face tight with worry. “Shot. In some warehouse in the Industrial district. The MPD chased the perp’s ship, but they must have got away on foot.”

Kylo waved a hand expansively. Now that Plumm was dead and his only concern was containing the circumstances of his death, he couldn’t care less how much time the MPD wasted. And if it pushed them away from realizing the Order’s role in Plumm’s death, so much the better. “Search the underworld. They’ll turn up eventually.” To Jaymes’ doubtful face, he added cheekily, “Trash always resurfaces.”

He caught sight of a familiar face and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the fresh wave of fire that shot through his blood. Matt’s slouch had deteriorated even further—he looked as if he were trying to fold himself into the floor.

“Lord Ren,” he exclaimed as soon as he saw Kylo, relief palpable in his face, voice, and posture. Then a sour frown wrinkled his startlingly familiar features. “The Bothan you mentioned spoke to me. She said all kinds of things about you, sir. I set her straight.”

Kylo felt his lips curve upwards, despite himself. He could easily imagine Matt’s stalwart fanaticism frustrating the calculating, equally stolid Tar’yn. “Thank you, Matt.”

“She said you wouldn’t finish what Darth Vader started,” Matt added in a confidential undertone. He shot the Bothan in question a quick glare through the dark bangs of his wig where she sat laughing among a group of businesspeople. “I told her you would. Will I have to read the speech, sir?”

Kylo shook his head, and Matt relaxed noticeably. “No. We’ll take care of it. Thank you again. The Order truly is in your debt.”

Matt glanced around guiltily, then muttered to his shoes, “If I may be so bold, my lord....May I keep part of this uniform? A glove, maybe?”

“Keep it,” Kylo said immediately, relief flooding through him at the thought of finally being free of the hideous thing. “All of it.”

Matt’s eyes widened, his expressive dark eyes so full of joy Kylo felt somewhat embarrassed. “T-thank you, my lord,” he stammered, his lips trembling. “Your generosity is—incredible.”

Kylo couldn’t help but agree, feeling very good about himself. “Don’t mention it, technician. Now if you don’t mind, I must tend to business for the Order. You understand.”

Matt beamed wordlessly at him, then about-faced and scampered away, glowing with joy and happiness in the Force.

The poet appeared at Kylo’s side, watching Matt go with light confusion. “Who’s that?”

“Just a loyal citizen of the First Order,” Kylo said gravely, reflecting idly that he was acting somewhat strange. He eyed the poet’s diplomat uniform, then looked around. “Where are your brothers?”

The poet gave Kylo a sly little wink, pushing his thick fringe out of his face. “They’ll be here soon. The MPD are here, aren’t they? Good.”

Kylo looked to Jaymes skeptically, where she was glaring at him—and, in all fairness, everyone else—with extreme venom. Abdul stood beside her, looking exhausted. “They’re here. Do you have a plan, or are you just going to....improvise?”

A bright, rather evil grin broke over the poet’s face. “Oh, we have a plan.”

 

 

Kylo had seen a few of the general’s speeches, and so far the poet was not living up to his brother’s powers of delivery. Anxiety and nerves rolled off him in waves—through his splitting headache he could just faintly hear his internal mantra of _don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic._ It occurred to him that the poet may not have ever had so many people looking at him before, with his sheltered upbringing. Had he even made a speech before, other than writing one?

The poet hid his fidgeting fingers behind his back and cleared his throat, bringing the lightly babbling crowd to attention and silence. They glared at him with varying degrees of hostility, worry, and fear.

“As you all know,” he began, his voice somewhat shakier than normal, “three guests have been murdered aboard this vessel.”

A wave of whispers and fearful babbling passed through the crowd, the guests shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Kylo grimaced; the poet was losing them already. Where his confidence came from, Kylo couldn’t imagine.

The poet watched them all, eyes sharp like his brother’s, then cut in, “However, I am glad to report that after this latest senseless killing, we have determined the identity of the murderer.”

Tar’yn snorted audibly, polite disbelief plastered on her features. “May we ask who it is, or is that _classified_?”

A few cynical snorts sounded around her, a few guests nodding along. Kylo swallowed, feeling the hostility of the crowd rising. Plumm was dead—the poet better know what he was doing, or he was going to alienate them completely and discredit the Order once and for all. The idea of Tar’yn Borsk winning made his stomach crawl.

Or maybe that was the poison. He couldn’t tell.

The poet’s lips curved upwards into a thin, sharp smile. “The killer is _you,_ Representative Borsk.”

Kylo’s eyes widened of their own accord. Whatever he’d been expecting, _that_ certainly wasn’t it. He could feel Borsk’s surprised confusion, the unease of the crowd.

“Borsk?” Jaymes whispered, leaning in close. “Is he spice-addled?”

Borsk seemed to have come to the same conclusion, giving a silver, tinkling laugh. “Is the Order truly that desperate, Master Verjel, that you bring these preposterous accusations? Where is your evidence?”

The poet’s smile didn’t fade. Whatever he was playing at, he seemed to think he’d smelled blood. “Representative Borsk’s hairs were found at the scene of Master Corsair Rahm’s murder, the first killing to occur on this ship.”

Borsk scoffed, shaking her head. “Grasping at straws, or hairs, I should say. That’s no more than coincidence. I expect half the ship’s biodata can be found at any one of the scenes.”

“Is that true?” Kylo asked in an undertone. “Borsk’s fur. Did you find it at the scene?”

“Yes,” Jaymes replied. “But we also found lots of other debris. It’s a commonly trod area. We didn’t think anything of it.”

The poet acted as if she hadn’t spoken. “Nor does Representative Borsk have an alibi for any of the killings. Master Rahm’s, Master Rance’s, nor Master Haare’s. There is no one else on this ship without an alibi for all three murders—as the MPD can confirm.”

He took a steadying breath. “In a statement, Representative Borsk claims she was reading messages on her datapad during the murder of the Core Worker’s Union Representative, Master Rowena Rance. Cameras in the area, however, cannot confirm this.”

“This is ridiculous,” Borsk said, looking around her in amazement. The crowd looked back at her, unsure, torn between two polarized accounts. “My _alibi_ for the murders are sound—why, I was meeting with Master Sienar for Master Haare’s murder, he can confirm—“

The poet cut her off, turning to Sienar, who was seated some rows back. “Master Sienar, can you confirm your meeting with Representative Borsk?”

Sienar looked to Borsk, who looked furious but confident in her vindication, then the poet, who was watching him with a steely eye. “I know of no such meeting with the Representative. She must be mistaken.”

Borsk’s gem-like eyes flew open, her jaw dropping to open her mouth in a perfectly round _o._ “What is this? Next you’re going to deny we met just now—which we did, I don’t know what you’re—“  
  
Around her, her businesspeople friends eyed her with mistrust bordering on suspicion. Sienar’s word went far in their circles, and they had no real reason they could discern to doubt his testimony. Abraxis _was_ a First Order world, and Borsk _was_ an enemy encroaching on home territory. Even if business had no true loyalty, the _us versus_ _them_ instinct died hard.

Sienar met her furious gaze, his dark eyes hard and cold and perfectly calm. “There was no meeting, Representative Borsk.”

A soft whisper swept through the room. All eyes were on Borsk, now, her disintegrating calm as she began to see the invisible strings of conspiracy tightening around her. The more she struggled, the tighter they were.

“This is ludicrous,” she hissed. “Master Verjel and Sienar are so desperate to find someone to blame for their failures they’re trying to pin these murders on _me_ —“

“No blame is being assigned that cannot be backed up by evidence, Tar’yn,” the poet said gravely, a cruel spark of sadistic pleasure glowing inside him. The engineer, for his part, looked fantastically smug; with his greatcoat thrown over his shoulders he was the spitting image of the general. The sniper was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s right,” Jaymes whispered. “We never did confirm Tar’yn’s alibi with Sienar. You wouldn’t think she’d lie, but maybe she did. But she had an alibi for Rahm’s murder, she went to go visit the professor. Plumm. Apparently he taught her in school.”

Kylo’s stomach swooped downwards, imagining Plumm’s body lying on the broken duracrete. That was an alibi that would be hard to confirm. How thoroughly had the Huxes planned this? Or was it all some strange, convenient coincidence? Either way, the evidence against her, while sensational, wasn’t enough to fully convict her. But in a First Order court, with a jury of First Order civilians, trying a representative of the New Republic—

“What is Tar’yn Borsk’s motive for these senseless murders?” the poet continued, riding the wave of murmurs and whispered suspicion. “The answer is shockingly simple: to destabilize the Order’s position on Abraxis. Already, I’m sure many of you have been subjected to her New Republic rhetoric. You’ve seen how she’s opposed and mocked this investigation at every turn, accusing the Order of incompetence, brazenly confident that her crimes will never be found out. She’s even had the gall to attempt to convince you, citizens of the Order, of these things, all while using you as fodder for her Resistance agitation.”

Tar’yn’s jaw was set, her gem-like eyes blazing with vain fury. The poet had her now, and they both knew it. Kylo could not miss the thin smirk of self-satisfaction on the clone’s pretty face. The hall was ablaze with speculation, whispers, anger. The supposition that Tar’yn was guilty was no longer in any doubt, swept away by rhetoric and lies.

It was nothing short of masterful.

“Not only this, but Tar’yn Borsk has documented meetings with anti-establishment fringe groups and anti-Order rebels on Abraxis,” the poet continued, sending a fresh, rowdy wave of anger and outrage through the room. “The same woman who claimed to only serve your interests is meeting with the rabble that organize strikes, sabotage your factories, challenge your authority.”

Over the chaos, a pale Muun from the Intergalactic Banking Clan stood and angrily demanded Borsk’s arrest. Another well-groomed Barabel from the Core Technician’s Association decried her as a Resistance spy. A third Chii-Took claimed she’d seen Tar’yn commit a murder with her own eyes.

If there was anything a group of powerful beings hated and feared, it was anti-establishment. The manipulation was so obvious it rankled, despite the fact he cited being true.

“Did she really?” Even Abdul was impressed, his facial tentacles twitching excitedly. “We’ve tracked a rise in rebel activity, but we never realized it was the _Republic_ —“

Kylo nodded, his headache growing to a breaking point. His vision was slurring again—he couldn’t afford to collapse now. He highly doubted Tar’yn’s threat to him that she’d been meeting with a Resistance cell had been all that genuine, but it had played beautifully into the poet’s hands.

Jaymes’ commlink twittered softly. Scowling, she pulled it from her belt and flipped it open. “Jaymes here.”

She was silent a moment as she listened to the message. Then she flipped the commlink shut. “Hair was found at the Plumm scene.”

Kylo’s heart tightened in his chest, his heartbeat quickening despite his best efforts. If any one of the clones’ hair had been found—or his own—the suspicion of Plumm’s death, as well as the others, would land squarely in their collective lap. “Has a genetic profile been identified?”

Jaymes nodded. “It’s Borsk’s.”

Kylo couldn’t help but frown. Had one of the clones had the forethought to _plant_ the hairs? Just how well—and for how long—had this been planned?

Jaymes’ expression had clouded over, her nagging doubt now banished to the furthest reaches of her subconscious. Neither she nor Abdul were stupid, but the tantalizing prospect of concluding a difficult and trying case combined with the sensational nature of Tar’yn’s guilt was too much to resist. They just needed one more solid piece of evidence to convince them completely.

Hairs could be planted easily, or gotten there accidentally. She had been friends with Plumm, it was entirely normal that her fur might be on him.

Silently, the sniper appeared at the engineer’s side.

In that moment, Kylo _knew._ Before the poet even opened his mouth, Kylo was certain of what he would say. “PC Jaymes, PC Abdul. Would you please consent to search Tar’yn Borsk’s cabin? Based on the evidence gathered.”

“Yes, sir,” Jaymes said quickly, rising business-like from her seat. All eyes were on her and Abdul as they strode briskly from the hall, Jaymes speaking urgently into her commlink. The tension amongst the crowd was palatable—if Kylo did not already know what they would find, he would have been on tenderhooks himself.

Tar’yn raised her chin, eyes hard. Surrounded by hostile businesspeople, who minutes earlier had been laughing at inane, friendly conversation, she was alone. “You won’t find anything incriminating that you didn’t put there yourself.”

The poet, engineer, and sniper wore uncannily identical expressions of smugness.

Minutes passed in quiet tense-ness. Kylo could feel the guests becoming uneasy, the tension at a breaking point, the poison seeping ever-further into his blood. The pain was almost unbearable; he felt nauseated, delirious. He had to fight to keep his nonchalant seat on his chair.

After many more long, terrible moments, Jaymes and Abdul re-appeared, accompanied by a few uniformed MPD agents, each holding transparent evidence boxes. Both officers gleamed with fierce triumph, all doubt and pity for Tar’yn evaporated. A flourish of whispers ran through the hall as the guests craned about to get a better look.

Jaymes and Abdul marched directly towards the poet’s perch at the stage and presented the evidence crates to him, expressions blazing with gravity. “The murder weapons for the first, second, and third murders, sir, as well as a recently fired blaster.” Jaymes said, loud enough to be heard by the whole hall. “Found in Representative Borsk’s cabin.”

The hall descended into chaos. Beings of all size, state, stature, and status were clamoring for Borsk’s head, pathetic in their credulity and their fear for their own lives. Jaymes and Abdul were yelling for order, Sienar attempting in vain to calm the guests’ bloodlust, the poet presiding over it all in silence, blazing satisfaction so bright he almost glowed.

Just then, a white-furred Cathar flew into the hall, breathless and wild, her fur in disarray. Kylo recognized her as the staff member who had welcomed them aboard. “Professor Plumm is dead!” she cried, too distressed to observe proper decorum. Kylo wondered how much she had been paid for this particular stunt. “He’s been found murdered—shot in the head—“

“Is this true?” the poet asked Jaymes, his expression perfectly sincere, not a note of perfidy in his voice. Kylo was almost shocked by how perfectly he lied. Even in the Force, the lie carried almost no signature.

Jaymes nodded. Combined with the dagger, sports bat, and blaster turned up in their search, and the confirmation of the hairs as Borsk’s, and the blaster that would no doubt be confirmed as he weapon that killed Plumm, her suspicion deepened into certainty. “It is.”

Kylo felt a cold sort of satisfaction that was mirrored on Nieguen Sienar’s face.

The hall descended into true chaos. Dignitaries were rioting, leaping out of their seats and screaming for blood, an arrest. Bankers were hurling threats, politicians expressing their outrage. To Tar’yn, it must have seemed that her world had been turned inside out.

A just fate for the New Republic and all who sympathized with it.

With the glacial coldness of someone who had just ruined another’s life and would never face punishment for it, the poet said, “PC Jaymes, PC Abdul, please arrest Tar’yn Borsk for the murders of Corsair Rahm, Rowena Rance, Audren Haare, and Petyr Plumm.”

As Borsk was led away, burning with fear and fury, the poet and Nieguen Sienar—ever the perfect cadet—led the crowd in a rousing salute to the First Order, outstretched fists held high.

 

 

Sunlight stabbed at his eyes, making Kylo regret opening them. The room was warm, the surface under him reasonably soft, the blankets above him tucked in tight, holding him down. He blinked; there was a window beside his bed, a few soggy-looking pale purple flowers on the bedside with a card that said “To Kilo” in a childish hand he recognized vaguely as the poet’s, with a blocky addendum reading “Please die quickly” that he could only assume was the engineer’s. The air smelled good, fresh, not like the antiseptic and antifungal the First Order pumped into its medbays. He was planetside, Kylo decided. He relaxed slightly against the pillows.

At the foot of the bed sat the sniper. His dark copper hair caught the light, gleaming like wire. He had not yet noticed Kylo was awake, his attention affixed to something in his hands. His expression was soft, almost grim. Even without the beard, he looked much older than his brothers, even beyond his years.

“You should be dead, you know.”

Kylo shrugged, laboriously bringing up one shoulder and pushing it back down. His body was still heavy with sleep. “How long was I out?”

“Just a day,” the sniper told him. His eyes were less sharp than usual, less guarded. “The poison was mostly out of your vital systems. Somehow.”

Kylo waved a hand in an imitation of mystic prowess. “The Force.”

The sniper’s copper eyebrows raised towards his hairline, but he offered no commentary. His attention returned to whatever he was holding, apparently content to let Kylo direct the conversation.

“What’s that?” Kylo asked, viewing the orange object with mild suspicion.

“Millicent,” the sniper said, as if that explained everything. He lifted his arms, revealing a tiny, pudgy bit of fluff that reminded Kylo uncomfortably of a Nexu he’d once seen in a zoo. It hissed and stretched out thin, needle-like claws. “She was in Plumm’s rooms. Probably a stray. I couldn’t leave her.”

Kylo did not point out that if he hadn’t shot the professor, ‘Millicent’s’ situation would not have been so precarious. Millicent gave a tiny meowl and raked at the sniper’s hand with her equally tiny claws, drawing a few lines of blood.

“Keep it away from me,” Kylo groaned. “The last thing I need is another ginger to shed on me. Seriously,” he said to the sniper’s glare. “Do you know how much of your hair I find on my robes? It’s disgusting.”

The sniper gave him a haughty, wordless look, then returned his attention to his baby monster, stroking her knobby head with his strong, scarred fingers. Kylo wanted to roll his eyes. “Where are the others?”

“Waiting for you on the ship,” the sniper said. “They would have come along, but we can’t advertise that Kylo Ren can be taken down by a mere metabolic poison.”

Kylo bristled at this. “Not all of them,” he said peevishly. “Plumm just got lucky.” He was silent a moment, then asked, “Is Tar’yn still under arrest?"

The sniper’s expression flattened, dropping to the little monster in his lap. “She was executed. The Republic protested, but there was nothing to do. Too much evidence.”

Kylo swallowed, trying to push away a recollection of Tar’yn stealing the power cell from young Ben’s lightsaber, running off with it and teasing and taunting him with it until he cried, all the while laughing her silver laugh. “A fitting fate for all enemies of the Order.”

“Indeed,” the sniper said, his tone very flat. He stood suddenly, cradling Millicent against his chest, letting her latch her claws into the fabric of his shirt. “Are you fit to walk?”

 

 

 

“Lord Ren!” the poet cried, scrambling up from beside Nieguen Sienar and throwing his arms around Kylo’s middle, burying his face in his chest. He smelled good, like something flowery, silky soft. Kylo patted his shoulders awkwardly, glad to see him. He was wearing a pretty little sundress that made him look about twelve years old and Kylo cringe, but he seemed to be enjoying it.  
  
The engineer glared at him from the middle of the pool, where he lay on a plump floatation device, fully in the general’s uniform and clutching one of Luke’s favorite romance novels cleverly disguised as a astrophysics textbook. “I thought you were dead.”

Kylo clamped down on the urge to flip him over into the pool. “Not quite.”

The engineer harrumphed. Pretending to be his brother seemed to be wearing off on him. “Well, make yourself useful and hand me the UV block, will you?”

Kylo frowned. “You’re inside. And fully clothed.”

The engineer flushed slightly pink. “There’s _windows,_ Ren. They only block 37% of the UVA radiation and none of the other wavelengths—“

Kylo gestured, and the bottle of UV block leapt up and smacked the engineer in the face. He gave Kylo an affronted look and made a not-so-surreptitious rude gesture behind his book.

Sienar chuckled, his dark eyes flashing with amusement. His skin seemed to glow; Kylo couldn’t help but admit that in his pale pink polo and dark shorts—each probably costing more than half Abraxii City combined earned in a day—he looked especially handsome.

The poet tugged on Kylo’s wrist, dragging him over to where Sienar sat at the pool side, making him sit down. Up close, he could see that the engineer’s arm was in a cast under his uniform, the cuts and scratches on his face.

“Master Verjel tells me you saved my life,” Sienar said, tone serious, once Kylo had settled down next to the poet and prevented the latter from slipping his hands into his sweatpants. “Thank you. I owe you a debt, Lord Ren.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kylo said stiffly. Between Sienar and Matt, he trusted the technician more, and nothing Matt had said led Kylo to trust Sienar. He watched closely as the businessman’s gaze passed idly between the three clones, each looking dangerously identical alone and together. But if he didn’t know, would he see it?

“Come on, Lord Ren, dip your feet in!” the poet exclaimed, grabbing at Kylo’s boots and attempting to pull them off. Kylo pulled away, not in the mood for antics. The poet seemed to understand, instead engaging Sienar in a rousing but painfully boring discussion of the Tibanna gas market.

A brief scan of the engineer’s surface thoughts revealed that he had a poker face of steel—how he could read _that_ in public with a straight face, Kylo would never know. The sniper was cuddling his new pet, feeding her tiny sips of Corellian ale out of the bottle cap.

In short, everything was back to normal.

Something felt terribly wrong.

An hour or so later, Sienar excused himself, citing the need to oversee the departure of the last of the guests. The poet watched him go, then grabbed Kylo by the shoulders and pushed him into the pool. Not to be outdone, Kylo grabbed one of his slim ankles and pulled him in after him, laughing at the high, thin shriek the poet let out as he hit the water. Sopping wet and flailing in some semblance of swimming, he gave an impish grin and curled his hands around the engineer’s floating bed.

“Do it, and I’ll make sure no device you touch works ever again,” the engineer threatened, his novel held protectively over his head.

Kylo grinned and yanked. The engineer was dumped summarily into the water, uniform and all, momentarily disappearing under the surface, leaving behind only the general’s cap.

Then suddenly he resurfaced, launching out of the water and driving the cover of the book into Kylo’s face with surprising strength, weighed down by the waterlogged uniform, lips drawn back into a snarl. The poet grabbed at one of his arms, Kylo the other; the engineer planted a booted foot into Kylo’s stomach, causing him to double over.

Soft arms twined around his shoulders, legs around his waist, slim hips pushing into his back. “Carry me,” the poet ordered once Kylo had surfaced, ignoring his brother’s glares as he pulled himself sopping wet and waterlogged out of the pool.

Kylo obediently pushed through the water, the poet perched on his back, his fingers pulling at Kylo’s now-wet hair. “Faster, faster!” the poet exclaimed, giggling as Kylo pushed off the pool floor, swimming in long, lazy strokes down the length of the pool. After a while the poet grew bored of this game, too, and pulled Kylo out of the pool, settling himself in Kylo’s lap, putting Kylo’s hands on his waist.

Kylo kissed him, letting the poet explore his mouth with his tongue. The poet’s tongue and mouth tasted sweet, like sugar, as if he’d just been eating candy.

“Get a room,” the engineer grumbled at them, but did nothing else.

They returned to the rooms, still wet, Kylo stripping off his wet clothes and putting on the first dry pair of sweatpants he could find. He was tired, sleepy, as if he’d exerted himself. He lay on the bed, folding his arms behind his head, watching the ceiling spin gently.

The poet re-appeared in his silky slip, his hair blow-dried and soft and fluffy around his head. He looked positively radiant; Kylo could feel the life buzzing beneath his skin, the energy and hot pulse. It was intoxicating.

The poet crossed his arms at the wrist and grasped the lacy hem of his slip, pulling it up over his rosy hips and creamy thighs. In one hand he held a small bottle; licking his lips with his pink tongue he twisted his arms and pulled the slip up and off, revealing his narrow chest, his small, wickedly pointed ribs. With a sigh he pulled in his arms close, elbows pressed close to his thin waist, shoulders dropping, a perfect picture.

He gave Kylo his sweetest look, then put his hands on the mattress and climbed up, looking at him innocently from underneath his near-blonde fringe. The innocence faded when, propping himself up on his knees, he popped open the bottle and nearly emptied it onto his fingers, two of which he pushed up his own ass. Kylo felt himself redden, harden, swallowing hard as the poet worked himself open in front of him, diligent and utterly shameless, gasping softly from the effort, pinking all the way down to his long thighs. He was putting on a show, too, throwing back his head and letting his pink lips fall open, moaning lowly, free hand skating over his pretty, erect nipples, his soft stomach, as if letting Kylo feel the tiny spray of fireworks he felt at his own touch.

Then suddenly he withdrew his fingers, light eyes dropping hungrily to the waistband of Kylo’s pants. Dropping onto all fours, he crawled over Kylo’s legs, dropping down astride his thighs and tugging at Kylo’s pants with his hands. He freed Kylo’s half-hard cock, his hunger a dull rumble in the Force, twisting like magnetism in electric current.

Then the poet’s hot mouth was around him, pink lips wet, suckling at the tip, running his curious tongue down the underside of Kylo’s cock, urging it to an erection.

Kylo felt his intention and frowned, a tinge of worry reaching through his warm haze of lust. “You’re not ready—two fingers isn’t—“

“Shh,” the poet said, as one might speak to a small child, and pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of Kylo’s cock like it the forehead of a small infant. His eyes sparkled with impish amusement. “That’s half the fun. Besides,” he paused to put his mouth over Kylo’s cock with such perfect hot pressure Kylo moaned, “I want to remember this tomorrow. I want to remember this when you fuck me again tonight.” His eyes had taken on a slightly manic gleam. “I want _you._ ”

“Yes,” Kylo groaned, the word rising from him unbidden. He could feel what the poet wanted as simply as if he’d been given an illustrated map; he grabbed a fistful of the poet’s hair and yanked, drawing out a yelp as he dragged the slender clone into place, pearly precum wet on his lips, shiny tears welling in the poet’s eyes.

Kylo let him go and slapped him, not too hard, but the poet whimpered anyway, arousal swirling around him like some irresistible perfume. It went to Kylo’s head, went to his cock, melted away his self-consciousness and sense of self.

“I know what you want,” he said in a lazy voice that was hardly his own, not moving a muscle from his reclining position. He let his eyes rake over the poet’s trembling limbs, letting his lip curl up in a sneer at his hard cock. “You want to ride me. Like a two-credit whore in an brothel. Don’t you?”

The poet shook his head, clearly lying, biting at his lower lip.

“Have you ever been to a brothel?” Kylo asked, some remote part of him genuinely wondering. “It’s where you belong. They’d see what a little slut you are in seconds. They’d tie you up tight and make you ride all day long, until it hurt.” The words flowed thoughtlessly, channeled straight from some fantasy part of the poet’s mind through his own mouth. He sneered where the script demanded. “Then maybe they’d let you go. But you wouldn’t leave, would you?”

The poet cried out his assent, the searing sting of Kylo’s words merging with firey pain as he pushed himself onto Kylo’s cock. He grabbed onto Kylo’s arm and thrust forcefully down, whining harshly, pretty face screwed up in self-imposed pain. He loved the pain, it made him feel more full, more used. He reached for his cock with a gasp—

Kylo seized his wrists and wrestled them behind his narrow back with the Force, twisting his grip tight so the poet moaned. The poet snapped his hips forward, yelling out as he slipped down Kylo’s shaft, pushing himself back down, punishing his own protesting body. A flash of guilt shot through Kylo; his under-prepared ass felt so _good,_ so hot and tight and _stretched—_

The poet began to rock his hips, head lolling back, mouth falling open, sighing and groaning like an underpaid porn starlet. This time it was no show—his ecstasy and desire were so concentrated, so forceful Kylo felt dizzy with it, disconnected from his body, anchored only by the waves of pleasure ramming up and down his spine. He grunted, digging his fingers into the poet’s soft thighs, drawing out a high, breathy cry.

The poet shuddered suddenly as he found the angle to press Kylo’s cock into his prostrate, his moans cut off, transformed into shallow, stuttering gasps; some wild part of Kylo’s imagination suggested the noises sounded distinctly choked. The poet clenched around him then came with a strangled cry, his narrow body going slack. Kylo let go of his wrists so he could catch himself as he slumped forward.

Through a happy haze the poet wriggled off him, his head dipping between Kylo’s legs. Kylo stifled a cry as he felt the poet’s hot mouth on his inner thigh, sucking at the sensitive skin. The poet’s fingers ghosted over his cock, then he lifted his head and took it down his throat in one impressively swift motion. Kylo felt his hips jerk up as the poet’s throat worked skillfully, drawing from him the most obscene noises. Release loomed over him, tantalizingly close; Kylo whined and struggled as he edged closer and closer, clawing at the sheets, teeth bared—

The poet moaned around Kylo and he came, his hips jerking up and his head crashing back into the headboard. He grabbed the poet’s head and held him in place; the poet swallowed obediently around him, eventually pulling off Kylo’s cock and collapsing bonelessly against his thigh. For a long time all Kylo could do was lay there and pant, feeling the poet moving weakly against him, clumsily petting at the poet’s near-blonde hair.

The sniper passed by the foot of the bed and offered them a judgmental stare, holding Millicent closer to his shoulder as if to shield her from their bad influence.

“Aww, you’ve gone and spoiled his lunch,” the engineer said. Kylo jerked to attention, seeing nothing. Copper hair and two almost grey eyes appeared over the edge of the mattress.

Kylo glared, feeling his face go hot. “Did you—were you watching—?”

The engineer grinned, propping his chin up on his hands on the mattress’ edge. “Guilty. Ah, a word of warning, he sometimes likes to—“

Kylo yelped as the poet bit into the soft skin of his inner thigh, his face hot as the poet’s tongue rasped greedily at the few droplets of blood.

“—bite,” the engineer finished, somewhat apologetically. “He really likes you,” he added, as if this excused and explained everything. He pushed himself up on his knees and planted a gentle kiss to his brother’s cheek, stroking his hair fondly.

“I need a nap,” Kylo groaned.

The engineer shot him a filthy look, cradling the poet closer in his arms, looking scandalized. “ _Men_ ,” he sniffed, then stood up and picked the poet up off the bed, murmuring gently in his ear. “Don’t worry, little brother,” he said just loudly enough to be heard. “I’ll take care of you.”

“I was _poisoned,_ ” Kylo protested. “I need to rest—“

“Excuses, excuses,” the engineer said, willfully unconvinced. Kylo sincerely regretted saving his life. The poet snuggled close to him, wrapped up in his arms while the sniper budged over on the couch and even put an arm around his little brother, keeping the hissing Millicent at arm’s length.

Kylo flopped over and was instantly asleep.

 

 

Kylo awoke with a start, the vision fading. But he couldn’t forget it, the same vision as before: the drop of blood, the flash of white, the single shot. He felt cold, disoriented. The killer had been caught—it was over— _what had he missed?_

“Do you like it?” a voice asked eagerly.

Kylo blinked. “Like what?”

“The braids,” the poet said excitedly, grabbing Kylo’s wrist and guiding his hand to his hair, which had been plaited loosely over the crown of his head. They reminded him of his mother’s. “Brother and I did them. Well, actually, he did them and I, uh, helped. He did mine too, now we match!”

“They’re nice,” Kylo said absently, unable to sense that sense of danger, pounding like a soft second pulse. He’d been so fast asleep he hadn’t even noticed them braiding his hair. He felt drowsy, as if he’d been asleep for days. “Has anything happened?”

The poet’s wide eyes blinked without understanding. “What do you mean?”

“Anything bad,” Kylo said. “I’ve just got this sense...there’s something wrong. Off. Like it’s not...over.”

“Of course it’s over,” the engineer said, crossing his good arm over his cast-encased one. “What, do you expect the good professor to rise from the grave?”

Kylo glared. “That’s not what I mean. I’m saying he may not be the only danger.”

The engineer rolled his eyes. “Alright, great, while you’re doing your totally not-vague tea leaf readings, I’ll be getting _very_ drunk to celebrate our good fortune. Who’s with me?”

“Me!” the poet exclaimed eagerly.

“Absolutely not,” the engineer said. “You’re a demon on the sherry.” He favored his pouting brother with a smile. “Unless you get really drunk on wine.” To Kylo, he said, “If you think he’s a slut now, you should see him after a few glasses. It’s an experience.”

The poet pulled a frown, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “I’m not a slut.”

“Yes, of course not, dear,” the engineer replied absently, already pawing through the sniper’s stash in the fridge. He pulled out a large bottle of Andorrian brandy, beaming at it fondly and popping off the cap.

“You’re not taking me seriously,” Kylo growled.

“I’m taking you perfectly seriously,” the engineer said, taking a healthy swill of brandy and dropping next to the sniper on the couch. “Now go fuck my brother, or whatever will make you happy. And quiet.”

The poet bounced excitedly on the bed. “Please? I’ll put on my dress again and you can take me out of it as long as you _promise_ not to rip it—“

The idea sounded promising. Kylo opened his mouth to accept—

The twittering of his comlink interrupted him. Scowling, Kylo answered it.

“ _Lord Ren_?” It was Jaymes.

Kylo’s heart almost stopped. His feeling had been right. “What’s wrong?”

“ _Wrong? Nothing that I know of. Abdul and I heard you were out of medbay. Since we’re heading off the ship soon, we thought we’d say goodbye. And thank you.”_

“Oh.” Kylo said. The feeling of danger, almost tangible like a phantom limb, throbbed horribly. “When do you leave?”

“ _Around 2200. Docking bay 94, or something like that. Why?”_

“No reason,” Kylo answered quickly. He could hardly come to non-Force users and expect them to take a feeling seriously, no matter how often his feelings had been confirmed to them in the past. And he certainly had no reason to tell them Tar’yn was innocent of the deaths.

He remembered his Master’s order: _You both will attend to ensure the event proceeds to our plans._ They’d barely succeeded, but he could not deny that they had. The murders stopped, the Republic blamed for them, their meddling emissary made an example of, many powerful beings’ loyalty to the Order assured. Even Sienar now had a new way to bully the rest of Sinear Systems into dropping the New Republic contract: they’d challenged the corporation’s very authority with such a brazen maneuver. And once Sienar had taken over BlasTech, the Resistance would rely only on the outdated Mon Calamari shipyards and black-market weapons.

Yet something still bothered him, persistent, powerful.

_“Oh. Okay. Well, you have the MPD’s thanks, Lord Ren. You and General Hux have done Abraxis a great service.”_

Kylo wasn’t so sure of that. “Goodbye, Jaymes. Abdul.” And with that, he switched off the line.

“Well?” the poet demanded, hands on his hips.

“It was just Jaymes and Abdul,” Kylo said. “They’re leaving at 2200.”

The poet made a face. “No, silly, I mean should I go get my dress?”

Dress? Kylo attempted a weak smile. “Sure. I’ll return shortly.” Unfolding his legs, he shimmied off the bed and made for the door—

“Where are you going?” the engineer demanded. He slid off the couch, brandishing an accusing finger Kylo’s way. The poet slipped to his side and took a healthy pull from his brandy bottle while he was distracted. “Oi! I was talking to you!

“Honing my emotions,” Kylo returned snidely, then slipped out before the engineer could properly formulate a reply.

“Come back soon!” the poet called after him.

 

 

Kylo waved aside the door in the Force, hating himself for even being there. And he _shouldn’t_ be there—as Kylo Ren, he was immune to all regret and sympathy. That part of Ben—weak, cringing Ben—was gone.

Yet here he was. Indulging his sympathy. Indulging himself.

Tar’yn Borsk’s quarters were predictably organized and tidy, and mostly empty. She lived her work as a Republic emissary, he knew, and knew his mother had respected that despite their differences. She was her father’s entire life, apart from politics. Kylo remembered seeing her in the big dizzy Senate halls, smaller than even him, her paw in her father’s as she told him _I’m going to be a Senator just like you, Dad._ He remembered his first time in the Senate building when he was just five or six, all those people and their many many thoughts crushing into his skull, how she’d found him hiding away in an empty conference hall and given him a glass of water, then said with the scorn of a six-year-old, _you look so silly when you cry,_ and sat with him until he stopped.

It wasn’t Tar’yn he held sympathy for, he knew. It was Ben.

Kylo stood, viewing Borsk’s scarce possessions anew. There should be something to send to her father, something for him to remember him by. Ben’s parents had never been given that sentimentality. He selected Borsk’s framed diplomat license and slipped it into a spare envelope on her desk, then scrawled out the half-remembered address. He’d stop a passing steward and tell them to mail the package, no questions asked.

Then Kylo turned around and left the room, leaving Ben behind.

 

 

 

 

They left the next morning, an _Epsilon-_ class shuttle having been flown up from the local base. As they trooped through the fantastically-adorned halls, Kylo could not help but feel a wave of relief. The ordeal was over. They had not failed the Order. On the contrary, they had enacted his Master’s orders to the fullest extent. They were headed back to the _Finalizer,_ to the grey walls and featureless surfaces where Ben could not reach out with his ghostly child’s hands and drag him down into memory.

And, of course, the Huxes would soon be reunited. Their excitement and relief was almost infectious, though Kylo personally felt that being reunited with the General at any time was too soon.

Something still felt wrong.

Kylo had meditated on it at length, and he felt he was no closer to understanding than he had been before. Snoke was again suspiciously absent, that familiar pocket at the back of Kylo’s mind distressingly empty. The vision from before was still troubling him.

The drop of blood, obviously, was the poet’s—he recognized that aspect at the time. The single shot, he surmised, was the sniper’s shot that ended Plumm’s life. But the flash of white’s meaning eluded him entirely.

Nieguen Sienar was giving the engineer his farewells, thanking him for resolving the crisis. The engineer was waving away his thanks, looking—to Kylo’s eye—rather smug. They shook hands; the poet gave him a cheeky peck on the lips and hurried up the boarding ramp, followed closely by the annoyed sniper and, of course, Millicent.

 _It’s over,_ they kept saying, over and over. _It’s over._ But it wasn’t. Why were they so convinced it was?

“And thank you, Lord Ren,” Sienar said with an incline of his head. “Abraxis is in your debt. As am I. Commandant Hux was my commander in my Academy days, I’m sure he’d be very glad you are here to keep the General safe.”

Kylo made a non-committal answer he hoped was diplomatic, watching the Huxes disappear up the boarding ramp. Seinar’s gaze followed; he looked almost fond. Kylo again got the faint impression he and the General knew each other well.

“If he were still alive, he’d be very proud,” Sienar continued. “Of the Order. And his sons.” He held out his hand to shake Kylo’s. “Thank you again, Lord Ren.”

Kylo froze, hand halfway to meet Sienar’s. His instincts were screaming, for the first time picked up on the scent. “What did you say?”

Sienar frowned. His frown could not hide his sudden spike of anxiety, which Kylo felt from him like a physical flash of heat. “I’m sorry?”

“What did you just say?” Kylo hissed. His fingers curled; Sienar froze in place, dark eyes wide with shock and fear. He could scarcely move any more than he could take flight.

“Say what?” His voice did not shake. Kylo almost had to admire his control.

“Commandant Hux’s _sons,_ ” Kylo growled, tightening his grip in the Force, making Sienar wince.

He paced around behind Sienar’s frozen figure, a frission of cold fury building in him with each second. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? Slip of the tongue, yes, but you can’t hide from me. I _know_ you know. I know you hid the tapes, lied about the cameras. _How did you know about the clones?_ Even I didn’t know—no one knows.”

“Lord Ren!” The engineer hurried down the boarding ramp; he sounded alarmed. Truly alarmed. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“He knows something!” Kylo shouted. His icy calm was breaking fast. “He’s known all along, he had Plumm’s murder of Rance on tape, but he said nothing—he knows about—about _you_ —“

“Listen to me,” the engineer said, making his way gingerly towards them, eyes trained worriedly on Kylo. “It’s nothing. Let him go, the General is expecting us—“

“It’s not nothing,” Kylo snapped. “It’s the first _something_ I’ve had since we caught Plumm, why are you of all people doubting he’s involved—?”

“We found the murderer. Nieguen almost died, if you hadn’t saved him—why would he cover for Plumm?” the engineer replied reasonably. “He had nothing to gain, and everything to lose. Let him be, the Order needs him.”

“I don’t know why!” Kylo yelled. “I just know he’s lying.” A memory occurred to him, horribly plain. “Plumm—Plumm said he didn’t kill Rahm. He was telling the truth, I felt it at the time. If Sienar killed Rahm, and Plumm found out, he may have threatened to tell if Sienar didn’t cover up for him. That’s why he hid the tapes, he was afraid Plumm would tell us about Rahm—“

“Ren, you’re making no sense,” the engineer said. There was real fear in his eyes, now. The sniper had appeared behind him, eyeing Kylo with the same cold worry. “What tapes? Let him go—Plumm was the killer, he said it himself.”

“That’s what _he—_ “ Kylo jabbed an accusing finger Sienar’s way— “wants you to think. But it’s not true. Plumm never killed Rahm—why would the Black Sun want an ex-Imperial who hasn’t left his house in years dead? The cameras he said were down weren’t, a technician gave me the footage. It has Plumm killing Rance, so he knew, and he lied. Why would he do that if he wasn’t guilty?”

“Ren, listen to me,” the engineer said, his tongue worrying over his lips. He made a broad gesture with his left hand. “Sienar has an alibi for Rahm’s murder. What’s the motive? He’s an ally of the Order, he wouldn’t do this. We need him, Ren. Let him go.”

Kylo could not argue with that. He teetered, unconvinced, unsure. Sienar’s almost calm expression did not hide the fear of being immobilized; the engineer’s mind was oddly blank, as if he were hiding. Kylo’s eyes slid over his uniform, something nagging at him—

The general’s rank bars were bright white against the charcoal sleeve. The flash of white.

He took a step back, realization crashing over him like. “ _You’re_ his alibi for Rahm’s death,” he said. And the engineer and sniper’s alibis were just as fake as Sienar’s.

He kept going, the words coming out of their own accord, the conspiracy suddenly clear, so clear.“I know the footage has been sliced, you weren’t standing in line for food—why would you? He’s the owner of the vessel and you’re the head of the First Order. You lied about where you were because you were killing Rahm. You planted Tar’yn’s fur at the scene— _you planned the whole thing_ —“

“Ren—“

“Don’t interrupt me,” Kylo snarled. The engineer took a slight step backwards; he knew then that he had lost.

Kylo turned suddenly on the poet, who was slinking away from his brothers’ side, “You were with me, but you left. Were you in on it too? I know Seinar knows there are three of you—did the four of you plan it together?”

He took a step forward and the other three took a wary step back. “Did you think it would be funny to leave me out of it, let me run around playing detective? Did you know about Plumm all along?” He was furious now, almost a week of humiliation and frustration fuel for the pyre of his anger. “ _Did you_?”

“It wasn’t that simple—“ the engineer said, but broke off as Kylo’s Force grip closed around his throat. The poet screamed and grabbed at his brother’s throat as the sniper grabbed him and held him back, glaring at Kylo with cold fury. Kylo could feel his free hand going to his blaster; he knew he could stop it at this range, deflect it back into him. He had half a mind to do so— _who did they think they were—?_

“Stop it!” the poet cried. “Lord Ren, stop it, please!”

“I was foolish to trust you,” Kylo growled. The conspiracy ran deep—had they even designed all this to distract him? With ‘investigation,’ with their antics, with sex? He had been deceived, and masterfully so, his own ignorance pathetic and complete.

“I was foolish to trust you,” he snapped. “I was foolish to even like you. I should kill all of you—“

The sniper’s shoulder slammed into his chest and Kylo stumbled, concentration broken. The engineer and Sienar slumped to the ground, the engineer massaging at his throat, glaring murder Kylo’s way. Kylo threw the sniper off easily, sending him tumbling, whirling around, his lips drawing off his teeth in a snarl— _he’d show them what it meant to mess with him—_

Only to find the poet holding a blaster aimed his way, at such close range even Kylo couldn’t stop the bolt before it hit him. His pale cheeks were flushed rosy pink, his thin chest rising and falling rapidly. His grip on the blaster did not shake.

“Traitors,” Kylo spat, shaking with rage and hate. “The lot of you. You jeopardized the entire mission—the Order itself—all for what? What reason could you possibly have to kill Rahm?

“None of us expected Plumm to start killing,” the poet said. His voice did not shake; there was something different about it, less breathless, more controlled. Kylo remembered how seamlessly he had lied to the audience about Tar’yn committing the murders and became incensed all over again. Had he been lying the entire time? About everything? He truly was as cold as the general—so were they all—

“After the murder of Rance, as you say, Nieguen knew it was him,” the poet continued, as if he could not see Kylo glaring at him. “Plumm was caught on camera. While you met with the MPD, we went to confront him. He had figured out our secret—that we’re clones. He threatened to make this public, as well as the Order’s close relationship with Sienar Systems—he thought he’d found some new evidence the Republic would like to hear. He was a professor of Bioethics and Policy in the Core universities, so we guess he realized we were the same.”

“That doesn’t explain Rahm,” Kylo snapped, stubborn. He could feel his hands flexing into fists, the Force drawing around him like a spring under immense strain, ready to snap.

The poet grimaced, ignoring that Kylo had spoken. “At that point, we were ready to let him be, find some other scapegoat. At the time Borsk was starting to make trouble, so it was my idea to incriminate her, knowing that Plumm would likely kill again. But then he struck again, with Haare, and contacted me to say he demanded a complete pardon in return for his silence. We had no idea how many more he would kill, and panic was so high—and you and I had almost caught him at Haare’s murder—so there was no way I could say yes. We had to find a way for you to find Plumm without our involvement. But Plumm was clever, he’d been keeping watch on the four of us.

“Nieguen was going to slip you the tapes himself, but the technician friend of yours did it for him. It took a lot of convincing—none of us wanted Plumm to reveal our secret to the world, so we couldn’t let you turn him over to the MPD.”

His expression clouded. “Then he took brother hostage, and we’d need your help to find him. Big brother was in favor of telling you then, but I didn’t want to. I knew at that point that you’d be furious, just as you are now, and we needed you to keep brother safe. So we held out. I planted Borsk’s hairs on Plumm’s body and big brother planted the weapons in Borsk’s quarters. And the rest you know.”

Kylo glared at him, his calm, controlled face, the blaster in his hand. He wanted to rip him limb from rosy limb. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” the poet said. “By the time we realized there was more to tell you, beyond Rahm, we couldn’t. We didn’t know how you’d react or what you’d do, and you were so close to the MPD. We had to keep it hidden from you.”

“You did that very well,” Kylo snapped, feeling simultaneously furious and foolish. How had he not seen? He’d been thoughtless, careless, trusting—he’d been Ben. Foolish, stupid, Ben.

“You musn’t blame yourself,” the poet said as if reading his mind, his tone pleading—manipulative—again. “We did what we had to, to safeguard the Order. So did you.”

Kylo cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Rahm. Tell me about Rahm.”

The poet exhaled sharply, clearly unwilling. A few silent looks to the others, then he said, “The plan was simple. Nieguen invited him—and us—exactly for this reason. I’d stay behind with you in the rooms while the other three lured Rahm in and finished him. We’d put his body in an airlock so the time of death wouldn’t be too easy to predict, then they’d go somewhere where they’d be seen and recognized. We had a paid hunter willing to take the fall, pretend to be an anti-Imperial. And that would be the end of it.

“But then you insisted on going to dinner, and I couldn’t refuse without raising your suspicions. We knew you can read minds, and I couldn’t give you any reason to read mine. We wanted to keep you out of it. So I went to dinner. But then Rahm appeared, out of nowhere—whether he’d recognized you or me, I’m not sure, but by the end of the conversation I knew he’d realized who I was. We look like him—our father—and he knew something was wrong. I knew he wouldn’t be lured by the others so I followed him and pretended I wanted to talk. Once we were alone I killed him.

“Once the others arrived, I returned to you and they dumped the body. We thought that was the end of it. Plumm might have seen us, because after a while I think he suspected us of Rahm’s murder. He threatened to tell you, the MPD, everyone. We couldn’t have that.”

“But why?” Kylo demanded. “Why couldn’t you tell me? Do you really think I would care?”

“You could have used it against us,” Sienar input. “But no. That wasn’t the reason.”

“You couldn’t understand,” the engineer added. He looked somewhere between livid and upset; the poet’s eyes were very pink and shiny with tears. Even the sniper’s emotions roiled under his icy surface.

“I certainly don’t understand now,” Kylo said. “Why did Rahm have to die? Why was it so personal? You could have just sent an assassin and no one would have even known—“

“We had to kill him,” the sniper said. “It had to be us.”

“Corsair Rahm killed our father,” the engineer said. He was still lying on the floor, propped up by the sniper, cradling his plastered arm in his lap. His hair was wild and out of place; his expression was bitter. “Our father—you know him as Commandant Brendol Hux—was enemies with Grand Moff Tarkin, in the days of the Old Empire. Tarkin was powerful, and had Rahm betray and disgrace our father, send him into exile to the Academy on Arkanis.”

“Tarkin soon died on the first Death Star,” Sienar continued, voice grave and heavy with emotion. The poet, now beside him, gave his hand a quick squeeze. “And the spirit of the Empire soon with him after Yavin. But there were still some of us left, and Rahm was one of them. Our only hope was the Unknown Regions, and the Commandant and his sons were safe on Arkanis, along with the Academy.”

“But the Rebels had sieged Coruscant, and the Empire was calling all remaining command in one last brave stand, or something ridiculous like that.” The sniper added, his voice quiet. He wrapped the general’s coat around his brother’s shoulders, helping him sit up, avoiding Kylo’s eyes. “Coruscant was death, we all knew that, but Rahm knew if our father became the leader of the new Order, he, as his enemy, would soon be dead. So he exerted all his dwindling influence and made sure our father would die on Coruscant instead.”

“I understand why you would want to avenge your father,” Kylo said, more quietly. “But why Sienar? He was just your father’s pupil. But you trusted him more than me.”

It was Sienar who answered. “At the Academy, the Commandant had formed an elite group of cadets—his own personal acolytes, if you will. The group was called the Commandant’s Own. I belonged to that group during my Academy years, and Brendol Hux was more of a father to me than my own. I swore complete and total loyalty to him as well as the Empire, and that loyalty remains in all of us. Everything I do—everything we do—is to uphold his legacy. To uphold the First Order.”

“Do you see why we couldn’t tell you?” the poet said softly. He’d put down the blaster sometime while the others talked. The softness had come back into his eyes, their shining blue depths seemed to hold minimal guile. “We did what we had to. Please don’t be angry.”

“I don’t see why I should believe you,” Kylo growled, but he couldn’t fully mean it. Despite all his differences with Ben’s parents, he too would want to kill anyone who hurt either of them. None of them were lying anymore, Kylo felt that with almost ludicrous certainty.

That didn’t make him feel much better.

The poet had the gall to look crestfallen. Even the engineer looked a bit put out. The sniper remained impassive; Kylo knew Sienar himself did not particularly care.

“Let’s go,” he said, cutting off the quagmire of roiling emotion threatening to pull him under. Brushing past the four of them, he headed up the boarding ramp. “The General’s expecting us.”

And not a second too soon to leave the godforsaken ship.

 

 

Aboard the shuttle, Kylo was alone in the cramped command partition, trying futilely to summon the focus to meditate. But his emotions, like a team of unruly beasts of burden, refused to come under the same bridle. He felt angry. Self-pity. Self-hate. General hate. Betrayal, sadness—none of them positive.

His Master always said his contradictory emotions made him powerful. He certainly didn’t feel powerful now. He felt like a stupid teenager—an _angry_ stupid teenager. It was a truly pathetic feeling.

He missed the _Finalizer._ He missed his Knights. If they had been there, he would not have been fooled for a moment. He would not have given in to temptation, he would not have done any of the monumentously foolish things that got him in this predicament. He would have not been forced to wait around for the foolish MPD and he would not have had to stand on ceremony and he most certainly would not have been bossed around by Tar’yn—or Ben.

Ben was at the heart of this, he knew. Ben was responsible for almost all of his weaknesses—except, perhaps, his explosive temper.

Surrounded by the harsh military structure, the disciplined minds, the unnatural order, Ben did not bother him. It was whenever he strayed, alone, back into civilian grounds. It was almost unbelievable that he had ever lived a civilian life, but every time he strayed, he remembered.

If the war ever ended, he was not quite sure what he would do.

“I’m sorry, Master,” he whispered, kneeling down on the deck until his forehead rested on the frigid durasteel. “I’m sorry I’ve failed you again.”  
  
He always failed, Kylo realized. Failure seemed part and parcel with his very being.

Snoke did not reply—indeed, if he could hear Kylo at all.

He lay there for a while in his prostrate pose, partly from obeisance and partly from resignation. He simply did not _want_ to move. It was childish, but Kylo himself was childish, never in control of himself, never disciplined.

He thought of what he would tell his Master. Snoke would not appreciate the General and his copies going behind his back on such matters—or, really, any matter at all. He might see fit to teach the General a lesson—a lesson in humility, and betrayal. Kylo let the terrible thoughts swell of the General and his brothers punished for their transgression, savoring each one.

Then with a long sigh, he let them go with an exhale, letting the dark side well up in him, unbearably strong. He knew with confidence that he could easily crush the shuttle’s hundred-ton duranium hull if he so pleased, or punch through the lightyears to Skywalker, if only he knew where in the far reaches of the galaxy he sulked and hid.

Instead he extended his consciousness until he felt the familiar warm presence of his Knights, the same insulating presence that had guarded him when he was young and weak, brought him up to be strong.

_I return soon._

Warm feedback flowed back from the bond, strong and sweet. Kylo let the bond dissipate, message sent, and felt more at rights with the galaxy.

A soft hiss sounded as the door swept open; a soft patter of bare feet, hesitant. “Lord Ren?”

“I thought I locked the door.” Kylo’s voice sounded cold, even to himself.

“Brother sliced into the lock,” the poet admitted, his voice soft, suppliant. Kylo did not turn to look at him; he had known it was him before he had entered. He halted a moment, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, then took a few stuttering steps and sat down at Kylo’s boots, then without preamble laid his head in Kylo’s lap, as if his leg were a pillow.

Kylo threaded his fingers through his silky hair, marveling at its softness, the softness of the poet’s breath, his soft pulse against Kylo’s leg. Such a fragile body. So easy to crush.

The poet swallowed; Kylo had been projecting his thoughts. Kylo curled a protective arm around his shoulders. “But you won’t give me any reason to do that, will you?”

The poet shook his head. His thoughts were flitting past too fast to read. “No. We won’t.”

“Good.” Kylo leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, just as he’d seen the General do. The poet flinched, just a little.

“They sent you to see what I would tell Snoke.” It wasn’t a question. Kylo could feel the engineer outside the door, his and the sniper’s worry nearly tangible. No doubt they feared punishment for their disloyalty—and betraying the General’s agenda. Not to mention the very real possibility that Kylo might crush their little brother’s throat.

The poet’s pretty translucent-lashed eyes looked up at him and Kylo marveled at their calculation. “Yes.”

“Then go. You’ll see my decision when I report to the Supreme Leader.”

The poet nodded fractionally, his head still in Kylo’s lap. Kylo lifted his arm and let him go; he pushed himself up off the floor and Kylo noted with grim satisfaction that he trembled slightly. The poet crept quickly to the door and let himself out with a fleeting backwards glance.

 

 

“And the murders?” Snoke asked, his deceptively soft voice sibilant, his space-dark eyes turning on Kylo.

Kylo did not hesitate. “We determined the perpetrator, a professor from one of the decadent Core worlds. He was dealt with and a Republic emissary was arrested and executed for the crimes. Nieguen Sienar has used this misdirection to turn the members of his board against the Republic and in our favour. The mission to Abraxis was a success.”

“Good,” Snoke mused, and Kylo felt a cool thrill creep down his spine at the praise. “Is that all?”

Did he know? Now Kylo hesitated; he could feel the General’s gaze on him, sharp and powerless. His thoughts read as blank—Kylo was not sure how he managed to do that. He said, “Yes, my Master.”

Snoke moved on without so much as a nod and Kylo felt a deep rush of power. He had _lied._ He had _lied_ to his Master. The thought was as terrifying as it was intoxicating. He was so preoccupied with the new sensation that he neglected all else for a few dangerous moments.

“And how goes the plans for the weapon, General?” Snoke asked, templing his long fingers, appearing pensive. Kylo’s attention snapped back to the conversation before he could be humiliated.

“All that remains is the detailed physical plan for the core substructure, Supreme Leader,” the general said, his tones clipped and precise, as if he had no idea his brother had spent more of his time drinking and committing murder than he had working on the base’s plans. “However, we are ready to carry out site surveys of candidate worlds.”

“Good,” Snoke said again, the pensive tone not lost. “You and Lord Ren shall carry this out at the earliest moment.”

Hux blinked; he had never submitted his list of candidate worlds to the Supreme Leader directly. Kylo hid a satisfied smile. His Master truly could glean the secrets of any mind. “As you wish, Supreme Leader.”

The transmission cut without a further word. Kylo pushed himself up from his kneeling position and turned around, unpurposefully in sync with the general. Their long strides matched as they marched from Snoke’s audience chambers.

As soon as the doors had swished shut behind them, Kylo came to a halt in front of the general, cutting off the path back to the bridge. Hux glared at him but came to a stop, greatcoat thrown over his shoulders and a haughty expression on his now-familiar face. “Yes, Ren?”

Kylo said nothing, not moving. He could feel the general’s annoyance mounting; he disliked not to be able to see Kylo’s face, disliked the mask. Underneath it, Kylo was still as a statue and twice as expressionless.

Hux blinked away his annoyance, straightening with a click of his boots’ heels. “I...I suppose I ought to...thank you,” he said at last, coughing out the words as if it choked him to say them. “For your...discretion.”

Kylo grinned widely under his mask, knowing Hux could not see. “You're welcome, General,” he said, savoring Hux's tight, pained expression, then about-faced and headed off down the narrow corridor, feeling his footfalls satisfyingly heavily on the grate of the deck.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t finish this update. This update finished me.
> 
> real talk tho, I hope you enjoyed! it gave me so much grief ;-; I probably re-wrote the ‘reveal’ scene about 7 times and im still not happy with it, so......yeah.
> 
> Anyway if you're wondering what the update schedule will look like...I'm not 100% sure like I have ideas for the story? but Bathory AU/Vivisect has taken over my life so yah, check that out if that's ur thing and if not this fic isn't abandoned so ye do not fear! Love y'all and thanks for sticking with me <3

**Author's Note:**

> come sin with me on [tumblr](firstordershitposting.tumblr.com).


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